


Green is the Colour of Hell, My Love

by LilyRosetheDreamer



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe- Inquisitor Not A Piece Of Wet Bread, Blood and Gore, Canonical Child Abuse, Character Death, Companion Stephano, Dorian Pavus Has Issues, F/F, F/M, Gen, Inquisitor Dorian, M/M, Mental Health Issues, POV Multiple, Panic Attacks, This is going to be a doozy, and have better developed characters, btw I’m not a pro-Chantry person so I’m hoping to be more realistic, thanks to my Discord server for that last tag, the original character is Stephano lol, this is going to be a big story oh no
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2020-08-23 04:22:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20236672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilyRosetheDreamer/pseuds/LilyRosetheDreamer
Summary: The rumours down South bring one Dorian of House Pavus, formerly of Minrathous to the doors of the Temple of Sacred Ashes during the Conclave. He leaves the Temple - just not in the way he ever wanted.The whole of Thedas has their eyes on him and they will find him wanting. Now he must not only convince them to unite under his banner, but convince himself he is right for the role of Herald of Andraste...the path ahead is dark and he has only himself for company.





	1. Prologue: Being Divine does not make you Immortal

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, hello! Because I have very little impulse control (and little motivation all at the same time, haha) and got inspired by conversations with friends, I have started (and dear God, I hope I can finish this, it’s gonna be LONG) my Inquisitor Dorian AU. I know there is already one story about that on AO3 (which is very good, I recommend Don’t Worry, I’ll Protect You by tklivory, though there are very strong topics in it, be warned which is why I ended up stopping reading, I’m sorry!), but this is my take of what it would be like to have Dorian as Inquisitor. I hope nobody minds. Please enjoy and reviews/comments are really appreciated so please don’t be shy.

She stumbles.

A Divine is taught how to walk before she ascends to Divine. They are settled into a room in the Chantry, given strict instruction while the younger nuns giggle behind their hands and the older ones either scowl in disapproval or smile indulgently (always one or the other, like the split between the factions within Chantry walls). Then they pair up and walk until those hesitant first steps turn into a humble glide, pious enough that nobody would ever think of touching a woman so blessed by the Maker.

Alas, now she stumbles instead.

The Blighted monster had not hesitated to touch her, so corrupted with Sin that it thought it could do whatever it pleased. He called himself Corypheus, God (_blasphemy_), took hold of her chin dispassionately (the fevered gleam in his eyes betrayed him), thoughts consumed by glory and doom upon all the world. The Maker cast him and his evil kin out for numerous reasons, she thought at the time, shockingly vicious in her struggles.

All her training, all her prayers were not enough.

The Divine Justinia, fifth of her name, failed in her sacred duty (Leliana and Cassandra must be worried sick) and now flees for her life in the twisted Fade, barely able to comprehend how she got here in the first place. A Divine in the Fade…that is nothing short of miraculous and terrible all at once. She is no coward, but she is an old woman and not as agile as she once was. The Fade is foreign to her, with strange whispers and dense green mist, and she is desperate. She’d barely had time to comprehend she was in the Fade at all before demons crawled over the rocks and pursued her.

In a clear mix of blessing and curse, the Divine is not alone in the Fade, however.

The panting young man in front of her has a vice grip on her hand, refusing to let go even as she hinders him. She remembers how he’d clutched his staff tightly, moustache quivering as he’d checked she was well and whole before pointing out the possible exit and taking off with her in tow, not hesitating for a second. The Fade presses its sickly glow against their skin, everything either floating or pulling them upwards and back down.

Poor thing, she thinks randomly as she stumbles again, righting herself. There is no need for him to be here. Her folly, Corypheus’ folly, is their own and the mage flinging fire behind them with a sharp, almost wild spark in his eyes should not be here.

Yet he is (a wrong place caught in a wrong time) but perhaps that will all be moot in moments, for a rift is flickering in an open and inviting manner; a promise of safety. If there are open rifts to Thedas, then they are all in danger.

The Fade echoes oddly, alive with the shrieking and ungodly gurgling of their demonic foe. If there is a hell, then this is most likely it. Dorothea (before Justinia, before the Ascent) always wondered in her youth about how mages withstood the Fade, how those who did not failed so spectacularly. Now she understands and marvels at her companion’s strength. The mage is brave through his exhaustion and own tightly sealed fear. He’s not slowed down once, surer with his magic than any mage she has ever known. If only she reacted sooner to the obvious tension between the mages and Templars. Her complacency has cost her dearly, in ways she cannot yet decipher.

“Are you still alive back there?!”

The man throws a look behind him as they finally slow, having reached the bottom of the steep incline below the rift. Despite their situation, there is a flicker of fascination on his face as he stares upwards and she cannot help but crook her dry lips upwards. Grey eyes soften in relief for a moment before turning into the hardest steel.

“Your Holiness, I suggest you go first. I will be right behind you,”

Divine Justinia opens her mouth, maybe to make a token protest, she’s not sure. She’s sweating and so is he, but the mage turns away and takes a defensive stance with his staff. His accent speaks of heat, of culture and privilege, things she knows well.

“We both know who is the more expendable of the two, Your Holiness,” he says, the slightest hint of a tremor in his clear, humoured voice (a pragmatic man, it appears). “but I do not intend to die just yet – I _am_ rather handsome, you know. I will hold them off so you can get a head start,”

“What a polite young man,” she answers wryly in her own reedy pitch, his attitude rubbing off on her a little as she finds the first footholds to begin her climb. The stone cuts into the thin skin on her hands.

It would make an odd scene to an outsider, a Tevinter mage defending the Southern Divine, but here they are. The crawling abominations chasing them do not care for such politics, too focused on their need to consume. Those who make a pace too close are scorched or frozen in equal measure, their rotten flesh bubbling or breaking into a hundred pieces, crying their frustration all the while. The mage is sure-footed and quick with his magic and Justinia has never climbed so fast in her life. She’s near the top in what seems like little time at all (though she is sure it must have been an age due to her creaking limbs) when she chances a glance down at the growing horde with a pit in her stomach.

“It is time to put your staff away, come on!” she screams down, suddenly fearing for his life.

Despite the practicality of his words, she will grieve and regret his death in her service with all her heart if he does not make it. None of this is his fault and it is unfair that he should suffer in her stead!

The mage _finally_ swings his staff into place on his back, kicks away a demon that scrambles too close and throws himself at the incline, climbing with rather remarkable speed (though perhaps not considering the unfortunate circumstances). Divine Justinia pulls herself up, rushes towards the pulsating rift stiffly, then peers over the edge frantically.

“The demons!” she cries out in horror, seeing how they’re already gaining on her stalwart protector, clambering over each other in their greed. It makes sense that he is the more attractive of the two – his magic attracts demons as much as it repels them.

He rolls himself over the lip of the jagged incline, springing to shaky feet with ruffled dark hair, some sticking to his forehead.

“Come on!” he all but begs, hurrying her along in front of him.

They’re so close, it will be alright! The Maker is watching over them this day.

Abruptly the mage yells out in shock, slamming to the ground with a crack as a spidery-looking creature pulls him down, one foreclaw already scratching at his clothing. The others sense blood and begin to swarm him as he thrashes, unable to reach his staff digging into his back.

“Run!” he snarls, already resigned even as he fights to the bitter end.

Divine Justinia has witnessed many things in her long, blessed life; has taught and failed others equally, helped birth and death along. She stops in front of the portal and suddenly feels a strange calm surety spread through her veins. Only one may leave the Fade alive and there is a reason this man ended up here with her. She feels Andraste guide her thoughts; she may leave behind unrest and despair if she falls, leave behind her Hands and many more who need her.

But she cannot bear to leave behind this mage, who jumped to her side with little care for his own life. That is not what Andraste would want.

Divine Justinia lets loose a war cry to bolster herself, picks up a stone as she runs forward and batters at the demons in a surge of faith-induced strength. The mage’s stormy eyes widen in disbelief as she pummels away, giving him room to jerk himself free and grab for his staff again.

“Are you mad?!” he bellows as she cracks the head of the spider open and tries to wade back towards him, realising her error too late as she stretches out a hand.

His gaze splits into distress, his magic panicked as the demons wrap slimy tentacles and Maker knows what else around her legs, saliva dripping down her robes.

“No!”

He starts to reach out for her, something breaking in his core, and she smiles sadly at the final knowledge that there are too many for them both to fight.

Divine Justinia has lived a valued life.

Now she must die so he can see the rest of his.

“I’m sorry, you must go,” she says with an awful finality.

She pushes him violently with both hands (he is too close, he must_ escape_) and the mage loses his balance, toppling backwards into the rift with a sparking, emerald hand still stretched out and a wail upon his lips. He is heart-breaking in his youth and she regrets nothing.

“Maker go with you,” she whispers as her flesh is ripped apart and has no time to pray for anything else.

* * *

It’s gone.

The Anchor is gone, the Orb lies dark and useless in one warped, long hand.

It’s disgusting; he remains this… hideous _creature_.

One little cretin has ruined **_everything_**.

Corypheus watches the smoking ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes from afar, the people scuttling around the smoking corpse helplessly like gleaming tiny beetles below. The Temple finally lives up to its name, an amusing thought at least. His death-bound dragon snarls intensely and takes to the air silently as Corypheus sneers in utter contempt and fury at the limp body of the mage slumped in the ash and snow. Soldiers shout and draw their swords, and he turns away, paying no mind to the stench of death below. Many of his followers died, yet he cannot muster anything but annoyance.

“Come, Alexius. We waste time here – we must plan around this…unfortunate set-back,” he rasps, throat ruined by the Blighted curse.

His servant bows shallowly as Corypheus strides to the dragon. He has drained most of his mana ferrying them to safety with that fascinating amulet of his, so instead they must now leave by dragon, a choice Corypheus does not make often or lightly. The twisted creature lowers itself to allow Corypheus to climb on. Then it silently takes to the air, wings beating hard as it dives for Alexius and sweeps him away in a flurry of snow.

Nobody remains afterwards, just ground-up earth and the glowing eyes of a wolf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so canon and divergence will happen, as you can see from this prologue, lol. Thanks for reading!


	2. 1: Waking up to Chaos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the next chapter of this AU and we’re going to go into the start of Inquisition – a difficult time for Dorian. I have also changed the ending of the previous chapter to make a bit more sense and hopefully flow better! Please enjoy!

  
**Dorian**

Dorian Pavus does not remember what happened after he stepped through the gilded doors of the Temple of Sacred Ashes (it truly was beautiful, even by Tevinter standards). He remembers the shaking breath he took, the nervous smoothing down of his travel robes (making sure that important letter is in his breast pocket), the stuttered pace of his heart. He remembers being carried along with the incoming crowd of mages, Templars, mercenaries and note-takers alike. The colours and sounds overwhelm him, gold burning into the back of his eyelids. Incense wafts through the air and leaves a funny aftertaste in the back of his throat.

Then darkness covers everything like a stubborn blindfold and there is nothing he can access, nothing he can pick out when asked. It’s all very frustrating later.

But he can tell of how he came to be at the Conclave in the first place, out of sheer desperation to get _something_ right, to help as best he can.

_It started with his former mentor asking him to join a cult._

_A shock of freezing ice trickled down his spine as he sat on the rickety wooden chair and stared at Gereon Alexius pacing; spinning the lunacy he placed before his former student into a reasonable tale of a possible cure for Felix after all, of an opportunity not to be missed, a chance to take back Tevinter glory! The Taint would no longer kill his one and only son, just think of all we could do Dorian!_

_Dorian had absorbed the weak light of the setting sun through the simple wooden shutters of the tavern room window. He watched the dust motes spin and settle through the air and saw the light pick out the fevered gleam in Alexius’ eyes._

_These were the desperate machinations of a father facing down the Death that loomed over his son with a scythe curving around Felix’ neck. And though Dorian loved them both still (curse his bruised heart, he did), he recognised the envy that curdled hot and low in his belly even then. _

_“Does Felix know?”_

_The tense silence shattered like the glass in the mirror Dorian had broken after…that evening (blood dripped down his arms then too and frantic washing stung for hours afterwards) and Dorian realised it didn’t matter if Felix knew, Alexius would go anyway. The expression of hurt he gave when Dorian refused in the end told him he’d given up on Tevinter too. _

_Dorian couldn’t give up on his homeland, regardless of the pain she caused, despite his need to leave her._

_He wanted to scream, to take Alexius by the shoulders and shake him until his teeth rattled. _

_What about **before**, Alexius? What about the drinks in the study discussing the shortcomings of said Tevinter glory?! What happened to wanting **change**? What did he promise them in return?!_

_Instead he let Alexius walk out of the tavern with bent shoulders as if Dorian had disappointed **him**, betrayed him even. Dorian was good at that, so perhaps he shouldn’t have been so surprised with tears pricking at his eyes. Dorian couldn’t stop him here or cause a scene._

_To stop the Venatori, Dorian would have to chase after that turned back stooped in the fading evening. He would have to leave the Tevinter Imperium for good (and he’d already vowed not to return anyway, how convenient)._

_Dorian spent the last night in his homeland drinking himself into a bitter stupor. He was rather good at that._

_Rumours flew from the South._

_Well, if one counted Dorian Pavus interrogating Venatori mages and other cultists he hunted down as rumour gathering, then it most certainly was._

_The travel to Ferelden was arduous (he never wanted to be that sick ever again, the inside view of a wooden bucket was terribly boring) and the familiar weight of the Pavus family birthright was gone, sold to an odious Orlesian merchant with a strange obsession for masks in exchange for the coin needed to found his one-man campaign across the ridiculously cold South (and that really solidified his disinheritance – Halward Pavus would have been fuming). Everything was wetter here, making his clothes stick uncomfortably to his skin in numerous ways and then froze him solid at night when he tried to sleep in his little tent. The Mage rebellion raged in full force and while Dorian absolutely supported them every step of the way, it also meant he’d suffered a few close shaves with Templars and Venatori alike. The weather and animals (they had bloody DRAGONS) all wanted to kill him too, how delightful! It was amazing what survival taught a man. Despite all that, there was still a rustic beauty to the South. Climbing upwards often treated him to a sweeping view of mountains dusted with sugar coatings of snow and swirls of ruby and gold painted the trees as autumn took full grip of the landscape. Dorian could and did stand or sit for hours with his grey eyes closed, taking in the unchanging beauty and the wind caressing his cheeks like a distant lover. The ruins too fascinated him, pointed and crumbling in littered stone mounds or failing towers across the hills. They also made for rather good shelter in a pinch. _

_The biggest reward, however, was catching unsuspecting Venatori looking to use the political climate to their advantage off-guard. At first, the information he…charmed or stole out of them (he vomited the first time he killed one) was very little. Some were low down in the hierarchy, some even as young as fifteen or sixteen. These Dorian always spared because it was like looking into a warped version of himself at sixteen. Few of these youths were from Tevinter at all and his heart ached at the thought that **this** was their perceived alternative to being chased down like foxes driven on by baying hounds. Others however…_

_The less said about the trail of gore he left behind him the better. Most of the time it was self-defence, but it also saved Thedas from one less corrupted blood mage, one less assassin looking to destroy families. Dorian tried not to justify it too much nor think upon it. _

_Over time, with as much patience and snooping as he could muster (which was a surprising amount), the information grew more fruitful. Dorian learned their ranks, their positions in the field, their almost fanatical devotion to this “Elder One”, titbits about experiments that chilled him to the core and worst of all, rumours regarding Alexius and Felix (though the one he heard about Felix being a vampire was laughable). It was in the Hinterlands surrounded by the bodies of six very dead Venatori and one Altus drunk on promises of glory (Dorian hadn’t known him but it mattered little now) that Dorian read the coded letter containing the dreaded words that sent his heart into the depths of his stomach. The name of his mentor sent Dorian into a frenzy of cracking the cipher that lasted two days with little food or sleep. They were going to the Temple of Sacred Ashes, during the recently announced Conclave by Divine Justinia V to try and broker peace between the mages and Templars (he’d learned about that passing through a little village that sold him some rations warily and made it clear he shouldn’t linger), but refused to elaborate further. In his heart he knew he had to get to Haven as quickly as humanly possible otherwise everyone would suffer, especially if the strained whispers of time magic that passed from Venatori lips were true. _

_If he could warn somebody, **anybody**…he had to try, didn’t he? He would never forgive himself if he just dismissed such warnings and sat there. _

_So, Dorian Pavus drew up the hood of his cloak, kicked away one of the corpses that lay strewn in the grass still and started the trek to the Conclave, putting the letter in his pocket as he left. He would worry about getting inside later._

* * *

Something drives a painful spike into his brain, making him flinch inwardly and move to curl up. The persistent rattling of chains sends his head throbbing in waves but also make his eyes fly open, his heart gripped in sudden panic.

Chains.

Why are there _chains_?!

No, no, has his father -?!

Please no, not again, not after everything he has done to get away! Why is it so difficult to think?

Dorian tries to sit upwards, the whites of his eyes showing as his breathing begins to spike. The hiss of swords leaving their sheathes has him ducking instinctively and when his frightened gaze adjusts to the gloom, he finds several men and women pointing swords at him, the metal reflecting in the dim torchlight.

Where is he? What _is _this? His father really _has_ pulled some strings this time.

Trembling, he hunches downwards, clumsily getting into a kneeling position as he realises his hands have been manacled together.

Maker, not again. Please, _please_ not again. He doesn’t want to be changed; no more innocent people need to die because he keeps fucking up -!

Dorian squeezes his burning eyes shut, praying for this to be a dream and finding nothing but the low crackling of sconces and his own rasping breath. That’s just his luck.

Without warning, his left palm flares in mind-numbing pain and Dorian whimpers, bending double as the guards stand coldly with no reaction. Emerald light bathes his vision and he stares down in disbelief as the hurt subsides for a second.

What the Void?!

His palm shows a strange mark, a crevasse from which the light burns that runs along and between his head and heart lines (his mother dabbles in palm reading from time to time). It gnaws at the nerves, worrying at them like a cluster of rats chewing on a rotting limb while the owner yet lives and Dorian grits back a yell as the pain ignites again.

What fresh hell is this? Is this really the work of his father? It seems beyond strange, even for him.

Wait…

The Conclave! He must warn someone about the Venatori presence, but he can still barely breathe and the guards surrounding him do _not_ appear friendly in the slightest.

Dorian swallows.

He’s scared, loathe as he is to acknowledge it. Did he do something wrong? Did he get ambushed at the last minute and captured by the Venatori? The uniforms of his guards don’t look anything like the clothing of the Venatori thus far; pale greens and beige with orange straps (what _were_ they thinking, seriously?) rather than the dark reds, gold and black that make up the majority of the cultists. Something isn’t quite adding up.

“What -?” he starts to ask, hating how reedy his voice sounds. Whatever he plans to say (and their subsequent reactions) is lost as a heavy barred door at the end of the cell is flung open, yielding instantly to a rather angry-looking woman with cropped hair and the symbol of the Seekers stamped firmly on the front of her armour. Another hooded woman wearing mostly purple and grey stalks in behind, eyes fixed firmly on Dorian as though he were prey.

Oh dear.

The first warrior circles him, her scowl heavy on her brow and Dorian draws himself up as best he can through the pain and awkward kneeling. If they are a strange extension of the Venatori, then he will do his best to die without giving them anything. She leans down, placing her face next to his ear, while the redhead across watches with no expression. She at least is better at keeping her emotions in check than the apparent Seeker. Perhaps he can use that against them if he calms down for long enough. But what are the Seekers possibly doing with the Venatori? Have they really fallen so far? The guards remain, though their swords are now sheathed. Dorian’s mind races.

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now,” the Seeker says quietly, breath hot against his skin and Dorian must control himself lest he flinch automatically away. He can’t give them anything to work with.

“The Conclave is destroyed and everyone who attended is _dead_,” the Seeker continues, the scar on her cheek thrown into sharp relief thanks to the sconces. Her voice is ragged with barely restrained grief and rage and Dorian feels as though he’s been savagely waterboarded.

The Conclave is…_gone_?

To his horror, his eyes begin to burn anew with unshed tears. Does this mean Alexius and Felix are…?

Dorian failed and so many people apparently paid the ultimate price for his incompetence.

“Except for _you_,”

The venom she throws at him hits him hard like she slapped him, and he blinks furiously as his hands clench (the left protests at that). The other woman narrows her eyes and Dorian works hard to keep it together, for this is veering into dangerous territory. Grey eyes lift from a suspicious looking stain on the stone wall to meet her fury.

“I take it you think_ I’m_ the one responsible?” Dorian spits back, doing his best to sound unaffected, anything but devastated and failing miserably.

Dorian is being accused of mass murder.

Of _course,_ he is; at least he now knows he’s not been caught by the Venatori. More likely he’s been captured by what remains of the Chantry authority that swarms Haven. The Venatori went through with their supposed infiltration of the Conclave and Dorian is taking the fall for whatever they did to destroy it, too late to prevent it. 

The Tevinter mage chokes on the guilt that washes over him as the Seeker lunges forward suddenly and grabs his left hand, wrenching hard enough to pull his arm out of his socket.

“Explain _this_,”

“I _can’t_,” Dorian shoots back, struggling against her (Maker, she’s strong). “I have no idea what it is, nor do I want it because it hurts like it’s going to make my arm melt off!”

She drops his gloved hand like he burned her, her teeth gritted like his.

“What do you mean you can’t?!” she grinds out, desperation at her core. “You’re _lying_!”

She goes to grab him by the collar, to bring him up to her height and Dorian’s shaking from stress, wanting nothing more than to shut his aching eyes and wake up somewhere else. The other woman intervenes, pushing the Nevarran (at least he thinks she is) back firmly.

“We need him, Cassandra,” she warns sternly, a faint hint of an Orlesian accent slipping through. “That mark could be important to us, remember what Solas said,”

Cassandra steps away, breathing heavily and rolling her shoulders. Dorian can’t help but feel empathy for their clear grief, even as he tries to swallow so his voice won’t crack this time.

“Whatever you believe I did is most certainly not true,” he intones carefully, marvelling at the fact that he’s managing to speak at all. “And while I am as shocked as you are that I am not currently a smear on your charming countryside, I do think I know who caused this atrocity. It’s why I came to Fereldan and the Conclave in the first place!”

Cassandra whirls around with clear distrust written on her face and the hooded woman tilts her head at him like a raven.

“Go on,”

Dorian swallows again, his throat irritatingly dry. He may as well give them the whole story, as the lives of many more may be at risk.

“They’re a cult called the Venatori – I’ve been tracking down Magister Alexius, a former mentor of mine who unfortunately decided that it was a marvellous idea to throw in his lot with them. I came across such a group in my travels and discovered a rather juicy coded letter to their leading Altus at the time. I remembered to take it with me, useful man that I am. It’s in my breast pocket if you don’t believe me,”

Cassandra scoffs bitterly.

“A likely story from a Tevinter magister!”

Dorian sighs, finally sliding comfortably into the mask he usually dons when talking to strangers.

“All right let’s say this once. I’m a mage from Tevinter, but not a member of the Magisterium. I know southerners use the term interchangeably, but that only makes you sound like barbarians,”

Cassandra opens her mouth again and the other holds up her hand and calmly reaches forward to pluck said paper from his pocket. Thank the Maker he’d thought to keep it as evidence.

“Sorry about the blood stains,” he adds, going for a layer of charm.

She raises an eyebrow, though there is a twinkle of amusement as she starts to read.

“I assume you decoded this, considering you knew to come here at all,”

“I did. Bit tricky – took me two days – but I managed,”

Dorian is warming up now as he grabs at the hope this turn of events has given him. He can do this. He can let them know the threat is real _and_ that he is innocent. The tension in the air can be cut with a knife.

“How do I know that you didn’t forge this yourself? That you weren’t going to be used as a distraction of some kind?” she whips out, her eyes not leaving the page and he winces internally. This one is probably a bard of some kind, judging by her sharp nature.

“That would be a rather strange distraction, would it not? Let’s have Dorian walk up to the nearest authority figure and let them know we’re here! I’m sure that will work,”

He tries for a small smile and she surprisingly returns it.

“What does it say? I have no time to decipher it, due to recent events and you apparently have. Then we’ll see whether I feel like believing you,”

He quickly relays the contents again, adding in his findings from interrogated Venatori for good measure. It would not play in his favour if he withheld information at this stage. She considers him for long enough that he thinks about fidgeting.

“You are mostly lucky, Dorian,” she drawls, folding the missive. “My people have been aware of the Venatori for some time. We have been on the lookout, though some of my scouts went missing recently. We were remiss in not dealing with this before the Conclave…shit,”

Her gaze shutters.

“I thought I was somewhat prepared, but clearly it was not enough. However, you are not out of the woods yet,”

“You could be working with them and you are our only suspect,” Cassandra agrees harshly, though the scenario that played out in front of her has given her cause to falter, unsure.

“Do you remember what happened? How this began?” continues the other woman.

Dorian shakes his head, keenly tired.

“Go to the fourth camp, Leliana,” Cassandra cuts in, her voice softer towards her friend. “I will take him to the Rift,”

“You’re right, we cannot afford to waste any more time here,” Leliana sighs. She nods once and leaves as silently as she came.

Cassandra comes over and withdraws a key from a pocket, unlocking Dorian’s wrists from the cutting manacles. He heaves a sigh of relief and gingerly stretches them out.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Cassandra growls, the scowl firmly back in place as she is handed some rope by one of the guards.

Dorian sighs again, too drained to argue or to try and escape. He has done all he can to give them the correct information and if they persist in thinking he killed everyone at the Conclave…

Well, he is already a pariah back home, why not extend that attitude to the South? The thought gives him no comfort at all, since this might actually kill him this time, and he rubs his face before standing and meeting her dark eyes.

“What happened out there?” Dorian implores. “Why did you mention a rift?”

Cassandra hesitates as she ties his wrists together.

For fuck’s sake, will he be executed here?

“Perhaps it is easier to show you.”

* * *

Dorian blinks rapidly as he stumbles out of the Chantry that is an apparently makeshift headquarters and into the winter sun. The village of Haven is surrounded and covered by snow and ice, the jagged mountains imposing in their cold isolation. There is a strange glow casting itself against the landscape and as his vision adjusts, Dorian is drawn upwards into something truly dramatic and more terrifying when he puts two and two together.

A giant green tear rips through the sky, a manifestation of the hole torn through the Veil. Static sparks through the air as the hole moans and Dorian can taste metal and magic on his tongue. It’s huge, unlike anything he has ever witnessed, neon swirling gently downwards like ink in water. Even looking at it from afar tightens Dorian’s lungs.

“We call it the Breach,” Cassandra says quietly. “It’s a massive rift into the world of demons that grows larger with each passing hour,”

She turns to take in his gaping expression, her stance solemn.

“It’s not the only rift, just the largest. All were caused by the explosion at the Conclave,”

“They really did do something ridiculous then,” Dorian whispers, shocked gaze alighting on her as she walks back to him. “If the Venatori truly caused this…this - this must have needed an enormous amount of magical energy! It’s madness!”

Cassandra shakes her head, more lost than he is.

“Unless we act, the Breach may grow until it swallows the world,”

Abruptly, the Breach swells, pulses outwards in a crackle of lightning and greedy expansion that snakes and flares through Dorian’s palm as well. Dorian cries out in agony this time, dropping to his knees as the pain rocks violently through every blood vessel, every nerve. It takes everything he has left not to start screaming and convulsing, sweat dripping down his forehead. He’s vaguely aware of Cassandra speaking frantically above him, her hand on his shoulder, but he’s locked in and can’t reply. When the flare-up fades, Dorian is left panting heavily in the snow. Oh, blessed relief.

“Are you alright, Pavus?”

“I-I…yes,” he gasps out, managing to climb to his knees again.

“Each time the Breach expands, your mark spreads,” There is dread in her tone and that same dread infects him too. “It is killing you,”

“…I see,” Dorian replies, closing his eyes. There’s too much happening.

“The mark may be the key, but there isn’t much time,” she goes on urgently and Dorian nods, grasping at that bit of knowledge that he can work out through his sore head.

“The key to perhaps closing up the rifts,”

“You catch on quickly,”

“I am a mage of Tevinter, dear woman,” Dorian rasps at her with a tired smile. “We rather pride ourselves on being remarkably clever,”

She snorts for a second.

“Whether that is possible is something we shall discover shortly. It is our only chance…and yours,”

Dorian raises an eyebrow as she helps him stagger back to his feet.

“Still believe I did this to myself; I see. I did just say I’m a clever man. Clever men do _not_ rip open giant holes in the sky or in their hands,”

She ignores him.

“Cassandra, it doesn’t matter if you think I am guilty. I tried to prevent this and was – I – look, I failed,”

She’s paying him close attention now, snow drifting peacefully around them.

“I will help, if I can. I want to make up for this, for the folly of my countrymen. I will go with you,” Dorian tells her intently, refusing to avoid her scrutiny. “If this mark closes the Breach, then I will not shy away from that, I can assure you,”

For a moment she studies his stubborn posture, splitting him open to get to the truth. Then she gives a brusque nod.

“You did not have much choice to begin with, mage, but it is good of you to commit sincerely to our cause,”

“Well now, that rather undermines my heroism a bit, don’t you think?”

“Ugh.”

Dorian squares his shoulders with a brittle smile as she pushes him through the village.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, that's another chapter put up! Please leave a comment if you can, it means the world to me!


	3. 2: There's a Rift between Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second chapter of this AU has arrived and there will be multiple POVs throughout this story, if you couldn’t tell already, lol. Please enjoy and please don’t be afraid to comment, I love them.

**Cassandra**

They move through the village of Haven, through the remnants of all those who flocked to the Conclave out of hope, of devotion, of pilgrimage. It matters not why they came, just that they came to see this war between the mages and Templars _done. _Instead they found only destruction and loss, grief and a boiling need to blame _someone, anyone_.

Cassandra muscles the Tevinter mage through the snow (he has told her his name, yes, but she’s not in the mood to care) and thinks wryly that she is rather like them. The rest of her reasoning is still lost under the engulfing sadness caused by Justinia’s death.

“They have decided your guilt,” she says heavily, feeling that perhaps it is only fair the mage finds out before the crowd and Chantry tear him to pieces later.

Something in her nags at that, a doubt that has been growing since the mage first woke. Cassandra pushes it away fiercely – she cannot afford any sentimentality towards their only real suspect and hope. He is as good as dead anyway; all evidence points towards such. The people move closer as they pass, malice glittering in the eyes of many. A few soldiers half-heartedly keep them at bay, but even they eye the mage with contempt. Someone spits and it lands with a wet noise in the snow at Pavus’ feet, melding with the snow. The air is heavy with murderous want, a lust for justice that may spiral, so easy is it to infect. They are only holding back because _she_ escorts him along, assuming he is to be transferred to Chantry court immediately. They have not told many of the plan for the Breach to prevent false hope. Cassandra shudders at the image of hands closing in on the silent mage beside her, tearing into his skin and spilling his blood in vengeance.

She knows if she gave the order, they would do that right now.

Justice cannot turn into vengeance…there has been too much of that already. Kirkwall’s broken Chantry flashes in her mind briefly and she squares her shoulders.

“They need it,” continues Cassandra, suddenly wanting to be out of Haven and at the Temple as quickly as possible. “The people of Haven mourn our Most Holy, Divine Justinia, Head of the Chantry. The Conclave was hers – it was a chance for _peace_ between mages and Templars. She brought their leaders together…and now they are dead,”

The mage glances at her out of the corner of his eye as a rumbling works throughout the onlookers, mutterings and the hiss of “Maleficar” reaching their ears.

“That is something I am familiar with, dear Seeker, though the scale has changed somewhat,”

Someone yells an insult that Cassandra doesn’t quite catch, but he clearly does for what little mirth lining his proud face leaves, a blank shadow in its place. She notes with grudging admiration that he does not bow his head, instead staring straight ahead at the cobbled path leading up and out of Haven. It winds to where the great Temple once stood, a symbol of pride and comfort for many in the village.

All that…gone in an instant.

Cassandra clenches her jaw and shoves at the mage a little too hard as they put the jeering and spitting behind, causing him to stumble and to scowl at her.

There will be a reckoning for this act of terror, she will make damn sure of it. And if it falls upon the mage currently struggling up the hill in front of her?

Then so be it.

* * *

The journey to the entrance bridge of the Temple does not last long, though Cassandra could have done without the Tevinter mage grumbling about the cold. He really should be grateful he can still feel it on his skin but complaining seems to be a common occurrence among the nobility. He speaks little otherwise, his brow knotted as he concentrates on balancing over uneven ground with his hands tied together.

Cassandra uses the time and stillness of the fresh snowfall to think, to reflect upon the Divine. Something aches in her chest at the reminder that she will never see Justinia’s smile again. They became good friends, once Cassandra grew used to her role as Right Hand. She can only imagine how Leliana must feel – the Divine knew Leliana for longer and clearly doted upon her. Cassandra hopes the Left Hand gets a chance to mourn in peace when this is all over; it is what a devoted woman like her deserves.

In the meantime, they must honour Divine Justinia’s memory together.

The heavy entrance gates creak in protest at the cold as she escorts the mage through, nodding at the guards on duty. More soldiers and volunteers are sorting crates, the supplies salvaged from the remains of the Temple. So little from what used to be so much…

“We lash out like the sky,” she muses as they walk among stares and Pavus blinks at her, brought out of his own thoughts.

“Is that not the way of humans when they’re scared?”

Cassandra shakes her head roughly, her voice cracking a touch.

“We must think beyond ourselves, as she did, until the Breach is sealed,”

He studies her cautiously as she draws them to a halt, pulling a knife from her belt. Alarm flashes across his features for a moment before relaxing as Cassandra cuts the rope tying his wrists together. As much as she too wants to lash out and scream, those words must be said. They are unwilling, but she speaks the truth regardless.

“There will be a trial, I can promise no more,”

He rubs his wrists and shakes out his hands.

“It is more than I expected,” Pavus replies softly and Cassandra turns away from his open expression.

“Come, it is not far,”

“I do wonder where we’re going,” the mage calls as he strides to catch up with her determined gait. “I know it is to be the Temple but -!”

Cassandra cuts him off, too impatient to hear him try to talk rings around her.

“Your mark must be tested on something smaller than the Breach,”

A terse response but they have already wasted enough time.

His face lights up with unnerving curiosity.

“Ah yes, a test! I do love a good experiment!”

She really can’t tell if he is being serious or not and rolls her eyes at the thought that he most likely _is. _At least Solas is polite about his interest.

“This is not a _game_,”

He sighs.

“I never said that it was. Surely you must be a _bit_ curious?”

Whatever else he is going to say dies as the mark sparks again, making him trip and hiss in pain. She steadies him, snow kicking up behind him.

“The pulses are coming faster now,” she notes lamely.

“Yes, I had noticed, thank you,” he pants, rubbing his hand briefly.

“The larger the Breach grows, the more Rifts and demons we face, mage,” Cassandra warns.

“My _name_ is Dorian,” he bites out almost automatically, face pinched and pale. “How did I survive this wretched mess anyway? Rather rare for a man to just dodge an explosion, talented as I am,”

“They say you fell out of the Fade – a woman was seen behind you. Nobody knows who she was,”

The mage – Dorian if she must – raises an eyebrow in slight disbelief, which is rich considering his hand is currently glowing bright green. They are making good time, however, if they keep this up -!

A streak of hot lightning cracks across the low bridge they’re about the cross, shattering old stone with a force unlike any other. Rubble and debris fly everywhere, men and women with it and cries and screams fill the air as Cassandra tumbles head over heels, rolling down an embankment before sliding to a halt. The shock jars her bones and rings in her ears, and she coughs, already heaving her body up despite the wind forced out of her lungs. Dorian groans to her left, wincing as he teeters upright, a streak of mud up one side of his body.

“All in one piece?”

There is a scrape on his cheek and all she can think is that they were extremely fortunate nothing is broken. The wind whips mercilessly at them and snow sticks to their eyelashes.

What looks to be a shrieking meteor slams into the icy ground in front of them (sending them off-balance again), splitting upon impact like a jewelled egg and flaring light upwards. The light bubble and smokes akin to a witch’s cauldron and solidifies into a screeching Fear demon. Its rotted face stays hidden underneath its ratty hood but its eagerness for fear washes over them in a wave of nausea. Long broken fingers reach out to grasp at the air.

“Stay behind me!” Cassandra cries, already drawing her sword and slipping her left arm through the buckles of her silver shield with practised ease. Their only source of hope must _not_ be killed so soon! There is no time to check that he has done as she asked, for the demon screeches again and she runs forward, sword aloft and gleaming in the watery winter sun. She doesn’t look back once as she slashes outwards and downwards quick as a whip, hoping Pavus is sensible enough to at least hide behind cover. The crackle of sparks fizzing against her eardrums says otherwise and Cassandra hurriedly dispatches her demonic opponent with surprising ease. Perhaps the creatures are disoriented – that would be something at least.

She knows that mages can cast magic without a staff, but the control is less and the thought of the possible cause of the Conclave with wild magic whips her around in time to see the mage fry a demon to a crisp. It must have bubbled up from behind her, shit! What is worse is that Pavus (not _Dorian_, no matter what he says) has a weapon now, a plain-looking staff of yew with branches spiralling at the head. It’s almost too crude for him.

She’s furious at them both.

“Drop your weapon, **_now_**!” she snarls, stalking forward and pointing the tip of her sword at the mage’s chest.

He scowls in a truly affronted manner, upping her paranoia slightly. There are no sudden movements, however.

“While I _am_ rather talented at magic without a staff, Lady Seeker, I thought that you would have some sense not to go gallivanting off and leaving me quite alone. You warrior types don’t like to think much, do you?”

He hasn’t put the staff down, even as she bristles. Instead he swings it round (Cassandra starts and throws up her shield instinctively) and secures it to his back. Something sad flashes in deep grey eyes at her reaction and he raises his hands slowly.

“If I were going to attack you, I would have,” he says irritably, covering up the strange slip. “I will _not_ cower behind you and possibly get us both killed for your comfort!”

Cassandra lowers her shield and curses lowly.

“You don’t _need_ to fight!”

Pavus laughs incredulously.

“Are you saying it won’t happen again? Because that is too much overconfidence, even for me!”

Damn it all, he’s right. He is not helpless despite his obvious noble background and she cannot be everywhere at once. His chin is set in a stubborn tilt and he clearly will not give ground in this argument.

Reluctantly she lowers her sword as well.

“You’re right,” she sighs as she snaps her blade back into its leather sheathe. “I cannot protect you…and I cannot expect you to be defenceless,”

His eyes are stormy as she rotates away for a moment, before glancing back over her shoulder.

“I will remember that you did not attempt to attack me or escape,”

Pavus sighs loudly as he follows her brisk gait, breath clouding into the afternoon air.

“Where in Thedas would I even _go_?”

* * *

Barely five minutes pass before they encounter yet more demons. This time, they do not fight them alone.

A familiar dwarf and elf attack ferociously, beset upon by the monsters before Cassandra and Dorian arrive in what appears to be a ruined courtyard. The twang of the dwarf’s crossbow fills the air, his face twisted in disgust and freezing ice magic pops in reaction to the already frigid temperature. Cassandra falls upon the demon next to Solas with aggression, allowing the Tevinter mage to assist Varric.

Maker _damn_ that dwarf, what is he doing here?!

The mage slips a barrier over them all; Solas acknowledges that and whirls with his staff blade, slicing a Fear demon’s head clean off. He is well-versed in close-quarter combat for an apostate – wandering the forests has been good for him in that aspect. A demon rises behind him, forcing him into an awkward sort of crouch as he ducks, and Cassandra reacts by stabbing her blade smoothly through it. Varric rolls as Pavus throws lightning in a rather flashy manner, a stark contrast to Solas’ quiet confidence. Eventually, with some frantic yelling involved, the onslaught lessens and Solas grabs a startled Pavus by the marked hand.

“Quickly, before more come through!” he shouts as Pavus struggles unthinkingly and thrusts the mark at the small, jewel-like Rift hovering above their heads.

Cassandra isn’t sure what happens next. The mark becomes unbearably bright, Dorian cries out in alarm and the Rift winks out of existence.

The relief is palpable.

It works. Their plan works!

Pavus skitters backwards like a harried sheep.

“What was _that_?” he demands, clutching his hand away from Solas protectively. “What did you do?”

“_I _did nothing,” Solas says almost smugly. “The credit is yours,”

Pavus narrows his gaze and this is the first time Cassandra sees true suspicion from him. There may be something she has missed. It does not last, for Pavus’ curiosity and seemingly insatiable need to know things breaks through, lighting up his face. He practically bounces forward.

“How does this all work exactly? It can’t be me wiggling my fingers and poof, can it? And for you to have some knowledge, does this mean you’re a Rift mage of sorts? There was a warping of the Veil like I’ve never felt!”

Solas holds up both hands under the mage’s barrage, chuckling helplessly.

“Mercy!” he jokes. “I will reveal as much as I can, but we are also short of time. I will say that whatever magic opened the Breach also placed the mark on your hand. I theorised that the mark may be used to close the Rifts opened in the Breach’s wake,”

A pleased note enters the elf’s voice.

“And it seems I was correct!”

Pavus beams at him, happier than he has been, and Cassandra sighs, trying to chivvy them along into a faster speed than a snail pace.

Mages.

“Good to know!” comes Varric’s inevitable input. “Here I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever. Solas also means he saved your life when we first found you, so yay, right?”

Fiddling with his gloves casually, Varric steps up to the Tevinter’s side, no doubt ready to worm his way into his good graces. He has a way with words unfortunately.

“Varric Tethras; rogue, storyteller and occasionally unwelcome tagalong,”

He winks in Cassandra’s direction and she snorts in disgust. If possible, Pavus’ delight grows.

“Varric Tethras! Dorian of House Pavus – you know my friend Mae! She’s married to your cousin!”

Varric laughs, little crow’s feet appearing in the corners of his eyes.

“Wow, it really _is _a small world! How are they doing?”

The other opens his mouth and Cassandra quashes the conversation, already moving onwards.

“Enough! We have little time as it is, how many times do I have to say this to get it into your heads? Talk on the way if you must!”

“Well…Bianca’s excited,”

She wants to tell Varric to leave, but he’s already inserted himself between Dorian and Solas, complaining about being a “prisoner” like the Tevinter.

Ugh, there will be no getting rid of him now. Solas introduces himself properly to their only suspect and the two quickly fall into discussing the semantics of the mark. She faintly hears Pavus thank Solas in hushed undertones and something pinches under her skin at the sincerity there.

Cassandra hastily tunes them all out until they reach Leliana’s meeting point _at last_. Leliana herself stands beside a member of the Chantry; arms folded to stave off the cold. The snow has not let up in the slightest, but the dark expression as she stares down her companion suggests that she may also be restraining herself from killing him. He wears the robes and trappings of a Chancellor…fantastic. The background noise of soldiers and healers fills the silence as they approach. At least there are still those who know how to get on with a job.

“Ah, here they come!”

He already sounds as if they have been keeping _him_ waiting specifically and Cassandra grits her teeth as they stop in front of the hastily erected camp. She hates bureaucracy and the Maker must be testing her patience for some purpose today.

“Chancellor Rhoderick,” Leliana begins formally. “This is -!”

“I _know_ who he is!” Rhoderick grinds out, eyes locked on to Pavus, who is frowning in bemusement at the open display of rudeness.

The _nerve_ of him to interrupt the Left Hand -!

“As Grand Chancellor of the Chantry, I hereby order you to take this_ criminal_ to Val Royeux to face _execution_!” Rhoderick draws himself up to his full pompous height, cheeks ruddy with cold.

“Getting rather ahead of yourself there, aren’t you?” The Tevinter drawls, folding his own arms as rage sparks in the caverns of Cassandra’s chest.

“Order ME?” she shoots back, storming over. “You are a glorified _clerk_, a bureaucrat!”

“And YOU are a thug, but a thug who supposedly serves the Chantry!”

Pavus is starting to shift uncomfortably, caught up in a tug of war of sorts.

This…_this_ is what she rails against and has started to question, a Chantry whose sole concern is making hapless peons obey them! To think the Divine put up with this!

“We serve the Most Holy, Chancellor,” Leliana interjects in a low, grief-tinged voice. “As you well know,”

“Justinia is **_dead_**!” yells Rhoderick, his hands flying upwards. “We must elect her replacement and obey _her_ orders on the matter,”

“Of course, mustn’t think independently now, must we?” the Tevinter mutters and Varric snickers. “Does this mean none of you are in charge here? A bit chaotic to say the least!”

Cassandra glares at him for trying to fan the flames (he’s smirking a bit, Maker dammit!) and spins to point at Rhoderick.

“Until that can be arranged, Divine Justinia ruled us as guidance in case of her absence!”

Rhoderick’s caterpillar eyebrows shoot up and he appears ready to argue.

Not this time.

“We can stop this before it’s too late!”

The winds whistle through her ears, her pulse pounding with it as he shakes his head like a mopey dog.

“Call the retreat, Seeker. It’s hopeless,” he replies, abruptly the picture of dejection. “You won’t survive long enough to reach the Temple, even with all your soldiers. We should at least prevent more death,”

She’s already fucking done with him, the lot of them. This will not prevent death, just delay it a little, can’t he see that?!

“Not necessarily, our forces can charge as a distraction while we go through the mountains,” Leliana points out calmly, gesturing in the direction of the peaks.

Solas and Varric’s heads move back and forth as though watching an intense game of catch. Pavus’ head is tilted, eyes flint-sharp as he takes in the argument though he oddly does not speak. She had thought him entertained a minute ago, but maybe he is taking the situation more seriously than previously assumed.

Or he just likes the sound of his own voice.

The Breach shakes the land and Pavus’ hand sparks once more. He grimaces at the pain, though it is less now.

Enough is enough.

Cassandra slams her hand on the rickety table, causing everyone except Leliana to jump.

“You will NOT disrespect the Left Hand like that again,” she snarls at the Chancellor, enjoying the widening of his eyes and flushing of his ears. “And while the mountain pass is risky – we lost a squadron not long ago – it appears that is our best option. Andraste fought against worse odds herself, _Chancellor_, and it would dishonour her to not try at all!”

She nods to Leliana, placing a hand on her arm briefly.

“Get everyone you can find left in the valley…everyone,”

Leliana steals away into the winter to do just that and Rhoderick leans over the table wearing an ugly shade of puce.

“Your will, Right Hand,” he spits quietly. “But may the consequences be on your head!”

Cassandra ignores him, striding past with her head held high and the party following silently. He grasps too high above his station.

She will have to pull him back down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was a filler chapter for the most part, I'm afraid. I did what I could to make this interesting to read so I hope it paid off! Next chapter will be the end of the filler (and back to our lovely Dorian!) I think for the moment. I also have nothing against Anders blowing up the Chantry (never played DA2 but it seems understandable), thought I should clarify. Mae’s husband is also still alive because I can. Thanks for reading and comments are very much appreciated.


	4. 3: And the Walls Keep Crumbling Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, we’re back with our boy Dorian this chapter! We’re getting to the heart of the Temple and with it the Breach. Please enjoy!

**Dorian**

The cold burrows deep into his skin as they leave the bureaucrat behind. Standing still for too long in the South tends to turn him into a human icicle, though with the way things are headed nobody will have to worry about that ever again, especially if he fails. The cold that entered his skin starts to seep into his stomach and lungs at that grim thought, forcing him to try and catch his breath while goose-bumps tickle his arms. For the first time in hours, Dorian Pavus fully realises that there may be millions of lives hanging on to his coattails (not that he’s wearing one – they “forgot” to give him that luxury) and depending on his ability to somehow wield a strange, painful mark to seal a massive hole in the sky. It sounds like some absurd tale straight out one of his fairy tale stories as a boy and the events of the day are pressing down on his brain, wearing him down heavily.

He barely has any idea how this thing on his palm works, despite a brief, intense discussion with Solas and his own frantic calculations and mental delves through half-forgotten textbooks. How the hell is he going to _do_ this?

Speaking of Solas…

Dorian steals a glance at Solas’ back as they push themselves up the steep mountain incline leading to clouded green. He can at least pretend the shortness of breath is from the climb (let them continue to think he’s a spoiled untouched prince) and not from growing fear and panic. It’s a half-truth after all – those make lies easier. And he knows Solas lied about not interfering with that first Rift he closed, he _knows_ it. Dorian felt the short shock of bizarre rift magic kick-starting the process like a rider cropping a stubborn mule.

Is the elvhen mage just modest?

Or is he keeping his cards as close to his chest as Dorian is? If he is, Solas is probably doing a better job. But perhaps Dorian can forgive himself for being vulnerable, he considers wryly as another emerald comet streaks past their ascent, the glittering trail melting the snow drifting around it.

He shies from that. No, if he is to at least _try _to make a difference, he must harden himself the way he usually does. He cannot afford to fall apart, not ever.

More soldiers are retreating ahead, running back through_ another_ gate towards their approach as an explosion cracks through the air. Someone sprints through a doorway, only to be lost as a Rift bursts open in a shower of sparks and crystal. The party loose their weapons grimly.

The smell of metal assaults them as archers volley arrows to cover retreat as best they can, but there are bodies littering the entrance regardless, broken and pitiful in the freezing white. A thick-set man with a mantle of fur and a wolf’s helm snarling atop his dark head bars the way as he viciously bashes away at a Lesser demon with a clearly scavenged sword and shield. Tar-like blood spatters over his tight face, chin and jawline scattered with days old scruff.

“Raleigh!” Cassandra calls out, charging forward with Solas not far behind.

He cuts the demon down, throwing himself aside as another spills forth with a rumble and just acknowledges her with a fleeting grunt.

“Come on, Sparkler!” Varric urges, raising his crossbow to add to the arrow hail and Dorian raises an eyebrow as he lifts his staff and summons down lightning from the cloud mass. He’ll question the dwarf’s bad choice of nicknames later.

An archer falls from the walkway above the gate with a gargle, his throat impaled and frozen at once with ice courtesy of the newly spawned Despair demon. Less blood than Dorian expects but gruesome all the same and Dorian curses as he hastily throws a barrier on the remaining archers, covering them with a second navy skin. That should have been his first move; he’s getting overeager. A stray soldier who remained loyally with Raleigh dies as well to a second Lesser demon, a pitiful wail echoing and fading into the wind as his blood pools and immediately slows in exposure to the cold. That spurs Raleigh further and he renews his attack on his opponent with extreme prejudice. Cassandra too appears to be taking her frustration and anger out on the hapless demon with her sword arcing high, Solas silently flinging barriers to protect them before getting to work. His magic is quietly confident, as natural as breathing and Dorian absently notes it, admires it, feels kinship forming.

“How many Rifts _are_ there?!” Varric yells in complaint, moving closer to the main fight as the second demon melts into a puddle of molten fat and ash by Dorian’s hand.

“We must seal it if we are to get past!” Solas yells back, a redundant statement in Dorian’s opinion.

Battle often makes one’s focus narrow however, so he will let it slide.

**_I’m so understanding_**, Dorian thinks randomly as he hurries forward with his palm outstretched and realises that he may be going a little loopy already. Delightful.

His magic travels down his left arm, meeting the ancient Fade with a force so jarring it leaves him gritting his teeth. How did Solas do this? He takes the piece of Fade magic with his own, as though he’s lassoing a dracolisk and flinches sharply as it bucks against him. Dorian’s muscle twitches in his jaw and he _wrenches_ hard – it’s the only explanation for what he’s trying to do right now.

“**_Close it!”_** he wills internally, shoving the otherworldly magic out into the physical realm. “**_Obey me!”_**

And slowly, with effort as the skirmish rages in front, Dorian threads crackling energy into the Rift, knitting the gaping wound and pulling it closed with a clenched fist. It burns consistently throughout. That had been horribly crude, but effective, comes the dim thought as he braces his hands on his knees and blinks away coloured spots, the ache traveling to his left elbow. He’ll have to improve his technique later.

If there is a later.

Maybe he’ll go home in an urn instead (when has he ever had a true choice?) and they’ll all sing pretty, heroic songs about him in every tavern in the land!

That forces a breathless laugh out of his diaphragm.

What bloody nonsense.

The demon and green geysers that sprang forth both die down with a whine and there is early winter silence once again. The soldier he’d assumed dead groans, raises his hand to limply pat at the claw rake in his side. Solas goes over at once, carefully squatting and saying something which makes the man crack a smile while his hands glow aquamarine.

Raleigh and Cassandra meet in the middle of the ice where the Rift resided, ignoring the tumorous mass it leaves behind. The weathered man with circles under his pale eyes throws his arms around her briefly in a one-armed hug.

“Was worried about you,” he says gruffly, pushing growing strands of short hair out of his face. “A runner brought news you were comin’ and I thought it best to help clear a path, Right Hand,”

Cassandra pushes him away almost playfully.

“You _know_ you can call me Cassandra, you oaf!”

He grins, looking younger in his simple colours of blue and brown for a moment. Solas steps beside Dorian, eyeing him in academic approval.

“This Rift is sealed, as it was with the first. You are becoming quite proficient at this,”

“We mages in Tevinter are rather adept,” Dorian answers, getting his breath back and Solas nods with a neutral expression.

“So it would seem,”

“Let’s hope it works on the big one,” Varric grumbles.

Raleigh glances at Dorian curiously.

“You managed to close the Rift, well done,”

“This is Raleigh Samson, a former member of the Templar Order,” the Seeker introduces quickly. “This is the prisoner – hopefully you were warned,”

Samson sighs uncomfortably in her wake and rolls his shoulders.

“I hope they’re right about you,” he says in a measured tone. “We’ve lost a lot of people gettin’ you here. The…_explanation_ was little, but yeah, I – I know enough,”

Something in Dorian burns at Samson’s words, crushing his gut. He understands the suspicion but…it hurts all the same.

“I am sorry for the loss of your men. You’re not the only one hoping that, I assure you,” he replies as evenly as he can and Samson surprises him by letting out a bark of laugher, rubbing at sallow cheeks.

“Not my men, my friend, but they died on my orders anyway. We’ll see, I suppose,”

He gestures to Cassandra as the gale picks up a little, forcing him to raise his voice.

“The way to the Temple should be clear, by your will, Right Hand! The Left Hand will try to meet you there, Andraste willin’,”

“Then we’d best move quickly,” Cassandra responds urgently, severing some of the awkward tension. “Give us time if you can, Samson,”

The remaining stragglers who fought with Samson jog past, helping any injured along. All look ragged.

“Maker watch over you,” Raleigh says, his hand hovering over Cassandra’s arm before deciding against such a familiar gesture and sketching a hurried bow of respect instead.

Dorian watches him help the man thought dead up and lead him away with an arm over the shoulder before shaking himself and moving with the party to the edge of the detonation zone. He’s been dreading this to a degree, but also oddly naïve, unprepared for what lies before them. His optimism was misplaced.

It’s a horrifying nightmare.

The ground is scorched black, steam gently clouding along with stray particles of leftover ash. The landscape surrounding the crater rises like a predator’s bared teeth, unforgiving in its defence. And the corpses -!

Oh, by all that is good, the fucking _corpses_.

Dorian staggers under the weight of so much Death, chokes on the smell of charred flesh that withered like boiled leather. The Death has tugged at his mind and magic for a while as they travelled; he’d held it back there, letting it press against his mana. Now it _screams_ at him, wails like the toll of a big bell in the tower, as though someone is pulling it right next to his ears. Some of the dead haven’t moved on either, the shock of such violence keeping them disoriented and weeping near their petrified bodies. Flame lingers on some who knelt in their last moments, jaws open forever in agony and hands risen in supplication while others curl in rigid fetal positions, covering their heads uselessly.

Some only have shadows seared into the ground where they stood the closer the group comes to the epicenter. The heat slaps their cheeks and Dorian stumbles under the evil of it all. Being a necromancer makes him more sensitive to Death than most, brings him closer to that shadowy brink.

Nobody speaks.

It’s too much, _so much_ -!

They had no chance, could not escape the burning and the unimaginable pain. Their blood boiled in the fire. They came for peace and were shown Death.

Dorian, by some deranged miracle, _has_. If he’d not been pulled into the Fade, he would have shared their fate – an unknown, unnamed life snuffed out, never to receive closure.

He cannot help the tears tracking down his dirty cheeks, survivor’s guilt rearing up to swallow him whole as he buries his hands in his thick hair. This isn’t fair, this should never have happened! The anvil of his failure grinds him to dust.

Solas’ eyes are brighter than usual, but he remains composed while Varric is solemn and staring and pallid.

“Shit,”

Cassandra continues to walk, her jaw clenched, and hands balled into fists. She doesn’t look at the carnage, probably to spare herself.

Dorian doesn’t blame her; he’s shaking from the sight, hands going to wrap around his body as he follows her like a duckling. He needs something to keep him grounded, to cut him off from Death so he jerks his gaze away from the wreckage and plasters grey eyes on the Seeker’s steady back, blocking out the toll. He can drown this memory in alcohol later, if his jailers are kind enough.

He must succeed today. He MUST.

Otherwise this will not be the last time he witnesses Death like this.

“This is where you fell out of the Fade and our soldiers found you,”

Dorian wishes very much that he’d never entered it at all.

* * *

Leliana meets them as they round a corner, picking carefully over the agonized dead as small fires flicker like beacons. The main Rift, the Breach, dwarfs them all, rotating and pulsing in a sickly fashion as it pumps energy endlessly into the split in the Veil. The hairs on Dorian’s neck stand to attention and oxygen becomes harder to whisk into his lungs. The others appear similarly affected (Varric looks vaguely nauseous) as Dorian gazes on, a cold sweat breaking out along his spine and the mark sends shooting pains in response.

It’s far more intimidating up close but he keeps his face blank.

“The Breach is a loooonng way up,” Varric breaks the stunned silence momentarily.

“You’re here!” Leliana sounds utterly relieved and she runs over, her own people behind her. “Thank the Maker!”

“Leliana, have your men take up positions around the Temple,” Cassandra orders immediately, taking command immediately out of necessity and for something else to think about.

Leliana hesitates, searching her friend’s pained face for a moment before giving a short nod and striding back to direct reinforcements. Many are clearly shaken, morale low. Dorian continues to stare at the Breach.

It’s now or never.

“This is your chance to end this. Are you ready?”

Is he? Is he ready to end the threat hanging over their heads?

Dorian’s eyes flick to the no-nonsense Seeker addressing him. Even if the Chantry and the Divine’s Hands decide he’s guilty and execute him (he rather likes his neck, what a shame), he will not leave this unfinished. He must fix this, no matter what his future holds.

It’s a pity, he thinks as he meets her hard eyes. He’s starting to like her.

“I am,” he responds quietly, chin lifting. “I do hope we can at least get thoroughly drunk after this, or at least have a plan to get me to the Rift. I’m not certain I can close it all the way over here,”

Cassandra rewards his wry humour with a smile.

“Let’s find a way down then, Pavus,”

Just as they’re starting to shuffle down, racing to gain access to a Rift for what should be the last time, a sudden voice booms in the air and causes Varric to jump backwards into Solas, clutching at his crossbow Bianca. Solas stares down at him, nonplussed as Varric stares around.

“What the _fuck_ is that?”

** _The ritual is ready…bring forth the sacrifice!_ **

The voice echoes in the space, reverberating through their bones. It sounds near to impatience but also triumphant, as if whomever is speaking is forcing themselves to remain calm. There’s a sinister edge to the male tone, however and the Right Hand appears bewildered as they all approach.

“What are we _hearing_?”

Solas cocks his head to the side, intrigued and revealing little presently.

“At a guess? The person who created this Breach,”

Dorian inhales sharply. The proof of his innocence can no longer be denied! He’s torn between profound relief and anxiety as he spots crimson glowing from the rends in the earth nearby, awareness dawning.

There’s red lyrium here. It sings faintly to him.

“Shit,” Varric repeats. “Red lyrium, Seeker,”

“I see it,” Cassandra snaps out, her wariness heightening.

Raw Fade magic has drawn on the lyrium that lies under the Temple, corrupting it. Their group does not _need_ more complications, but they keep coming. Dorian sways a little at the exposure, a headache forming already. Solas’ expression also takes on a pinched quality and Dorian trades him a sympathetic glance.

“Whatever you do, don’t TOUCH it,” warns the dwarven rogue gravely.

** _Keep the sacrifice still!_ **

The voice barks from above, irritated. There is a pause, then Cassandra turns rapidly a few shades lighter as a woman’s voice shrieks for help, desperate to be heard.

“The Divine!” she whispers, her eyes showing their heartbreak.

The Rift cracks and sparks and Dorian’s hand flares with it. He hisses in pain, sensing the magic build up again.

** _Someone help me!_ **

Dorian jumps along with everyone else when he hears an abrupt bang and his own fucking voice.

** _What the HELL is going on here?!_ **

His past self sounds shocked and furious all at once, as if unable to believe what he was seeing and not liking it one bit.

“Good for me,” mumbles Dorian, a bit woozy from all the weird twists his life has taken recently (and from the mounting pain in his head and hand, mustn’t forget _that_).

“That was _your_ voice!” exclaims Cassandra.

“I’m well aware, thank you,”

“Did the Most Holy call out to you?”

Dorian cannot answer her.

“You _were_ there! Who attacked the Divine? Are we hearing the truth?!”

The muscular woman storms forward and Dorian whips round defensively, fed up to his back teeth suddenly of her insistence.

“I don’t _know_!”

She is taken aback at his surge of temper and Solas interrupts the tension again, musing under the light of the Rift.

“Echoes of the past…the Fade bleeds into this plane,”

He turns back.

“The Rift is not properly shut, but it _is_ closed, albeit temporarily. I believe that with the mark, it can be opened and then sealed properly and safely,”

Dorian blinks twice, his annoyance forgotten. Now he understands how Felix must have felt when he and Alexius prodded at him constantly.

“Are you mad?” he asks somewhat reasonably which is rather an achievement for him under all this stress; yet despite the turmoil, this piques at his curiosity.

It’s official – he’s the mad one.

Solas regards him calmly, like a teacher at one of his Circles when he disrespected authority.

“However,” he goes on as if Dorian hasn’t spoken. “Opening it again will likely attract attention from the other side,”

Dorian sorely hopes this information isn’t for _his_ benefit because a child mage could work that out.

“That means demons!” Cassandra shouts for the other soldiers stationed around them. “Stand ready!”

A wave of affirmation answers, her people battered and ready to fight, nonetheless. Multiple weapons rasp as they’re drawn, and pride radiates from the Nevarran woman.

Dorian breathes in heavily, once, then twice and opens the Rifts as abruptly as ripping a bandage from a healing wound. It’s easier to open one than to close it apparently, like the Fade is childishly eager to connect to Thedas.

A blast of light hits the ground and grows upwards into the frankly large shape of a Pride demon. That was the last thing anyone wants here; unfortunate then that this is what has decided to emerge. There’s no helping it now, for Cassandra raises her sword defiantly and gives the signal everyone’s waiting for. The Pride demon crackles all over with menacing intent and electricity and the battlefield explodes into somewhat organised chaos and battle cries as it stomps forward, sending the earth shaking and some of their forces spreading. It laughs, squinting down at the fleeing ants with barely concealed pride and glee. It’s a toddler presented with many new toys and Dorian wearily elevates his hand along with his borrowed staff. He has no access to lyrium potions and Solas just drank his own to replenish mana. The single option is to hold out if he can. Spells and projectiles fly in all directions, creating a buzzing that drives into his skull. Cassandra and Leliana holler out instructions, focused on wearing down the creature’s defences. Someone is grabbed by a clawed hand, crushed idly and spraying red like a ripe orange before being tossed aside. Their attacks are not even denting it, so absorbed in its own self-confidence it is.

Dorian dodges a stray fireball, watches it form a sizzling neon whip and start smashing it around, causing churned dirt, screams and a return of the smell of singed skin. Even Solas is harried-looking, throwing barriers as often as he can manage. He must _do_ something drastic to break its armour or the Pride demon will wear them all down and pop their delicate insides like bloody grapefruit!

His glowing hand catches his eye and he pauses, glancing between it and the Rift as the wheels grind in his brain.

Could he…?

Cassandra catches his thought process and screams out;

“Disrupt the Rift!”

There’s only one way to find out.

He thrusts up his palm again and sends out more energy, aiming to at least sever the Rift’s connection that feeds the demon. All at once the Rift expands, frozen in time and the Nevarran warrior senses her chance as the demon sinks to one oversized knee in confusion.

“The demon is vulnerable – now is our chance!”

With that she lets out a screech of berserker’s rage, bolstering herself and others nearby as they close in, hacking and shooting away with deadly intent. Dorian blinks sweat out of his eyes and assists Solas with another barrier surge.

It’s as if the battle is everlasting yet fleeting at once for a mage who has little war experience, warmth and crimson blotting the dirt. Dorian steadily disrupts the Rift to bring its armour down and Varric bursts one of the demon’s tiny eyes with a well-aimed bolt finally; it moans long and deeply, sinking to both knees to paw at its face in anger. It looks to be on its last legs.

“Now seal the Rift!”

The voice jolts Dorian from his battle-haze, the blur that descended some time ago clearing a bit. With what appears to be the last of his strength, Dorian points his left hand skyward and pours as much Fade energy and his own flagging magic outwards as possible. The Rift fights him ferociously, screeching and shrinking as though trying to escape the leash. The demon roars as it dies but Dorian scarcely hears it.

It’s not working – kaffas, it’s not _working_!

The Rift pulls away, refusing Dorian’s depleted will and Solas’ face falls in complete dismay. Irrationally, it triggers Dorian’s heart to sink - he wants to…he doesn’t know.

He’s let everyone down.

As the Rift rips free like a wild animal from its cage and rockets upwards into the Breach, tearing through more of the Veil and rooting outwards like cancerous veins, Dorian’s hand explodes anew and his drained body is buffeted backwards by the aftershock.

Someone screams his name.

** _I tried, Felix…_ **

He sinks into nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, that was long, lol. I hope this was a satisfying chapter to read and I appreciate anyone telling me what they liked about this chapter! Any critique is welcome as usual. Thank you. Btw for anyone that may think so, Cassandra/Samson is NOT going to be a ship, I apologise if you are mislead with that.


	5. 4: And We Rise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Hope the last chapter left you on the edge of your seat! In this one Dorian wakes up…and the Inquisition rises once again. Please enjoy!

**Dorian**

_A woman cries out in the dark._

_Something flashes on the edge of his vision, but the wolf howling sends him fleeing for cover before he can investigate._

_A hooded face picks him up and examines his glowing form carefully while cradling him tenderly. _

_“I have high hopes for you,”_

* * *

His bed creaking as he moves sluggishly is the first undeniable sign that he’s not halfway up some Maker-forsaken mountain anymore.

Dorian turns his head slowly as he becomes aware of the soreness in his neck, scrunching his eyelids tightly in a half-hearted effort to block out the light before he sighs and cracks them open. Blinking several times to clear his blurry vision, Dorian groans as the many aches and bruises make themselves known and he unconsciously flexes his left hand when it too stings. The glowing and overwhelming pain has at least stopped for now.

Where is he this time? He thinks he was dreaming but he cannot hold on to the images.

Numbing grief seeps into his bones the longer he lays there and remembers, the Rift and his crushing failure weighing him down. If he closes his eyes again, perhaps he can forget again for a few hours. How can he resolve this mess now? How does he put to rest the dead that burned at the Temple?

Instead of trying to sleep as his body wishes to do, Dorian finds himself studying the room he’s been placed in (anything to distract him from the corpses flickering behind his eyelids). It’s quaint, highly rustic with a light wood texture and crackling fire merrily keeping him warm. There is a small shelf with a few books and knick knack and barrels line the left wall next to what looks to be an empty bird cage for some reason. They’ve even put furs on the wall as well as the floor. Fur belongs on the floor _only_ – whoever resides here_ tried _to decorate at least, but there is no accounting for taste. And he suspects this is a storage room, so it’s nice to know that they consider him spare baggage.

Perhaps he is being too bitter.

As Dorian’s thoughts pick up normal speed, sorting out the scattered pieces the Breach left him with, the door clicks open and an elvhen woman strolls in with a box. She glances briefly at him and startles, dropping the load on the floor with a heavy crash.

“Oh!” she cries out, stumbling backwards.

Dorian hesitantly sits up right, thankful he at least has his underclothes on.

“I’m sorry,” he says awkwardly, slightly off kilter by the appearance of a stranger and she shakes her head as she continues to back away. A flighty woman, by the looks.

“I didn’t…I didn’t know you were awake, I – I _swear_!” she stammers out, her Ferelden accent thick with nerves.

The way she stares at him…

Dorian burns with embarrassment, unsure of whether to meet her eyes. Is this her residence? Why is she looking at him with an unwelcome combination of fear and awe, as though he is an otherworldly being to fear and praise all at once?

“Please,” Dorian tries gently, moving to sit on the edge of the bed slowly. “It’s alright. I’ve only just awoken. Is this…your home?”

She fiddles with her fingers nervously, her gaze trained firmly on the ground and Dorian is sickeningly reminded of Tevinter…of home. This bothers him more now than it ever did back then, and he’s hyper aware of his left palm, of her eyes skittering to it.

“I…no, I mean – I don’t know who’s it is. I’m sorry, m’Lord!”

Dorian grips the bed sheet tightly. For all his social graces and many masks, he has little experience with putting someone at ease. He just wants her to be unafraid. She starts to drop to her knees before him and ask his blessing and he _must_ stop that right now. He’s just one man, not a deity and he is shaken by this unexpected situation.

“It’s alright, please,” he tries again. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced; my name is Dorian of House Pavus. I’m not - I’m not whatever you think I am,”

Her head cautiously lifts, confused at his clumsy attempt at introduction and Dorian fights down the panic and humiliation, trying to reconstruct his mask with brittle glass.

“I’m…I’m Mine, ser.” She answers with trepidation. “You’re back in Haven,”

Dorian gets up, wobbling for a moment and her brown eyes widen. Not sure of what else to do, Dorian bends down and picks up the box she dropped, placing it on the table for her. She reaches out, aborts the movement quickly and hunches.

“We all got back safely?” he ventures at last to break the stifling silence. “Cassandra and Leliana and the others?”

“Oh yes!” Mine nods rapidly, eager to reassure him, to serve. “Everyone who’s left is accounted for, m’Lord! They say you saved us!”

Dorian’s brain screeches to a halt.

Hang on, _saved_ them? But the Breach didn’t close, did it? Solas all but confirmed it!

Mine must notice the intense bewilderment on his face for she unfolds and straightens, shuffling like she can’t keep still. She continues to gaze at him in ways he’s not sure he is comfortable with, but she seems to breathe easier around him now.

“The Breach stopped growing, just like the mark on your hand,”

Dorian glances down at his bare hand momentarily.

Thank the Maker, that’s something at least! He smiles tentatively and his belly warms when she smiles back.

“It’s all anyone’s talked about for the last three days,”

He’s been unconscious for _three days_? Shit, he’s most likely missed some important developments, including the decision on his own fate. People have burned for far less after all. The voices in the Temple ruins may mean nothing if they decide it’s demonic in nature.

And what will it take to close the Breach completely? His mind whirls briefly with possibilities.

“Thank you, Mine,” he says softly. “It might not be what we’ve hoped for, but it’s not bad news either,”

Her eyes may as well be on stalks at the fact he’s just thanked her – it brings out a mix of amusement and prickling shame. He hopes she’s being treated well here.

“I’m certain Lady Cassandra will want to know you’ve woken!”

Mine heads for the door, certainly under orders to let the world know he’s still alive. He doubts it will be pleased he didn’t go out in a noble sacrifice.

“She said at once! She’s in the Chantry with the Lord Chancellor if you want to know where she is!” Mine rushes to the door and opens it, glancing back for a second before stirring herself. “At once!”

Dorian watches the door bang closed in her wake, very nonplussed at the whole encounter. An excitable woman, that’s for sure.

He should get dressed and find the Chantry before any more people come to bow and scrape at his feet. The whole experience with Mine has left him adrift, a shredded leaf in the aftermath of a torrent of wind. Part of him does not even want to go outside, afraid of what might happen, afraid of what he might find. At least when he stuck his head in the sand in Tevinter, he did so while utterly plastered.

Dorian dresses and pretends that his heart and hands aren’t quivering.

* * *

Now that he’s not being shoved through jeering onlookers, Dorian finds Haven to be smaller and not as decrepit as he’s been expecting. Shutting the door behind him (it’s the least he can do for whoever sleeps here), Dorian picks his way carefully at first through the endless white, growing more confident as he realises he won’t fall on his rear end in front of the villagers. They don’t appear to be looking out for him at least, many absorbed in their daily routines. A few meet his eyes, pausing to watch him pass in silent contemplation or judgement. A blacksmith knocks metal into a point over his anvil, steam and smoke floating from his workshop. He spits at Dorian’s feet as the mage passes and Dorian keeps his back straight but quickens his pace, ignoring the drilling yells of the remaining soldiers practicing their footwork. The word that he’s awake is probably spreading already, fueled by whatever reactions people consider necessary. Dorian prefers not to be there for that. Flakes of snow stick to his dark hair as the Chantry stands ahead, a simple stone and wood building with hide lanterns glowing on either side of the double doors. It’s a far cry from the gilded gold of the Imperial Chantries and Dorian stops for a second, taking in the path ahead. Tents mix in with the small houses sprawled before the Chantry like loyal followers, trade mingling with information and laughter or the comforting hand to a shoulder bowed in lingering grief.

As Dorian ascends the first set of stairs under an old archway, intent on reaching the Chantry as soon as possible, he spots a blessedly familiar face next to a large bonfire. There are few sitting here, too busy making idle conversation or reciting the Chant of Light to note Dorian’s approach.

“Ah, Varric!”

Varric jerks his head up from his papers, his quill poised in mid-air. His face melts from its stern repose into surprising relief. Was he…concerned about him?

“Look who’s finally ready to show us all he’s alive!”

Dorian stops, uncertain of the gathered who finally pay attention to Varric’s announcement. Some whispers reach his ears and Varric scoffs as he heaves himself to his feet and trots over.

“Don’t listen to the gossip – it’s not like any of them were there, right?”

Varric winks as Dorian gathers himself and pulls his ever-present false feathers on display for all to see.

_Dazzle the spectators, Dorian. They won’t see the rest until it’s too late. _

It’s one of the few pieces of advice his mother gave him.

“Well, I suppose I had to appease the masses sooner or later. Can’t keep my adoring fans waiting,”

Varric laughs, his hands rubbing together to keep away the cold. Dorian is already struggling to hide his shivering and the dwarf groans, nudging him over to the fire.

“Listen, you might have a reputation now but I’m a simple dwarf. I like to be indoors and warm, but this will do for now. Besides, by the time I’m through writing your heroics, your fans will number in the thousands, Sparkler!”

Dorian spreads out his hands, drinking in the heat, absorbing it and relishing the sleepy stirring of his fire magic in response.

“Come now Varric, I thought the Ferelden air was supposed to be refreshing! Also, I want a new nickname,”

Varric raises an eyebrow, a grin working its way on to his face.

“What’s wrong with Sparkler? Not _colourful_ enough for you?”

Dorian makes a face, highly unimpressed and Varric chuckles, seating himself across from Dorian and laying his precious crossbow on his lap.

“I’m not particularly sure why a moniker you gave me five minutes after we met applies, considering you barely know me,”

“I have the eyes of a storyteller,” Varric shrugs, amused even as Dorian sighs. “It’s a gift!”

“So, I’m a bit of light you stick in a windowsill to impress passers-by? All flash, no heat?”

Let him think that.

Let them _all _think that if they so wish…for now. Dorian has a rather hefty job to carry out after all and the sooner he can start catching people off guard the better. He’s not in the clear by a long shot and the Game never ends.

The South _is_ infamous for their stubbornness.

“Hm,” he muses aloud, teasing entering his words. “That’s actually pretty clever,”

“See!” Varric cries, waving a hand at him. “Embrace your place in the universe, Sparkler!”

Despite how close that sounds to his parents, Dorian cannot help but smile. He already likes Varric – Thorald’s earnest blood is in there.

Abruptly there’s a disturbance as some men wearing Chantry issued armour come clattering down the second lot of steps towards them. Their faces are the hardness of men sent on a mission and the mage’s stomach sinks as he realises they’re focused on him.

So much for some peace.

“Ser Pavus, the Hands of the Late Divine have asked for your presence immediately,”

Dorian’s eyes whip round momentarily, unsure of the precise meaning to this request. Have they grown tired of debating what to do with him?

Varric gives a nod of encouragement and Dorian relaxes minutely. He hopes their shared links with Mae and Thorald are enough for Varric to step in if he _is_ put on trial, but Varric’s reassurance at least means they won’t be cutting his head off today.

Hope is a marvelous liar.

“Of course,” he replies at length and reluctantly leaves the lovely fire, walking in the middle of the six guards as they escort him to the humble Chantry.

Whispers and stares too escort him, the sounds of spitting and hastily muttered prayers blending unpleasantly. The big doors shut behind him, refusing natural light any entry and Dorian allows himself to be marched to the double doors at the end of the candlelit corridor. Snatches of Chants waft through the stone cracks and the guard in front gestures with gruff words to match.

“Go in here,”

Dorian nods, hesitating before giving his thanks as calmly as he can.

This is it.

He’s acutely aware of his heart beating frantically to keep his body alive and the way his hands are balled into fists. He forces himself to relax and cloak himself in an air of disinterest before sweeping in.

“I apparently have been summoned! And here I was enjoying my sorely-needed beauty sleep!”

Cassandra sighs, studying a hefty book lying on the modest table and Leliana and Rhoderick (oh hooray, him again!) look up at his lofty voice. The Chantry Chancellor appears to have swallowed a lemon, a terrible look that clashes with his robes.

“Chain him!” he orders immediately and Dorian tenses even as Cassandra stands to her full height with a roll of her eyes.

“_Disregard_ that,” she counters swiftly, a metaphorical heel crushing Rhoderick’s feeble attempts at authority as said man splutters. “And leave us,”

The two guards waiting at the doors drum fists against their breasts and leave as quickly as they came. Dorian has no idea what to make of any of this.

“You walk a dangerous line, _Seeker_,” Rhoderick spits in a low voice, looming at her as soon as the doors snap shut.

Cassandra matches him, the scar on her cheek livid in the candle glow.

“The only line I walk upon is the line Divine Justinia set before us. You would do well to join me! The Breach is stable for now but exists still. I will _not_ ignore it,”

Dorian warily steps closer, the temperature in the room dropping by a few degrees. Leliana regards all of this in silence.

“I assume that the big bad Tevinter is getting a trial? I do hope you let me know in advance; I can go and pick out a dramatic outfit for court!”

Rhoderick scowls at Dorian’s levity, his lined face thunderous.

“No,” Cassandra says heavily. “You will not be going on trial,”

Dorian remains there mutely, unable to process the sudden change of heart for a second. An absurd surge of hope threatens to crack his veneer and Dorian squashes it viciously.

“I see. Something tells me there is a catch behind your gracious generosity however,”

There always is.

His walls will not crumble.

Leliana enters the conversation, her expression thoughtful as she rakes him over in judgment. Dorian is quite frankly sick of judgement.

“You aren’t a suspect in the immediate incident anymore, it’s true. Someone was behind the explosion…someone the Divine did not expect,”

“Most likely a Venatori,” Dorian contributes. “Or even their leader,”

Leliana nods, lips pursed.

“They may have died with the others – or escaped with allies and yet live,”

That’s a grim thought and unfortunately more than likely.

Rhoderick shakes his head, throwing his hands into the air, the long sleeves of his robe fluttering.

“So, you would just allow this – this -!”

“Peon? Great source of evil? Devilishly _handsome_ man?” Dorian offers helpfully, the beginnings of a shit-eating grin adorning said handsome features.

Rhoderick looks ready to strangle him (poor man, maybe he should sit down) and Leliana hides a smirk behind one hand.

“_Chancellor_, you have so little faith if you truly believe that Monsieur Pavus is just going to skip away with no scrutiny,”

And there it is, the vicious fishhook.

“What am I being suspected of _now_?” Dorian asks wearily, already feeling the beginnings of a headache.

The Chancellor’s smug expression does little to help.

“Pavus is from Tevinter,” Cassandra speaks up, her arms folded against her chest. “The fact that you were at the Conclave at the same time, _despite_ your proclaimed reasons, is suspicious,”

Ah, the usual Southern suspicion of Tevinter existence. Wonderful.

“You think I am a spy then. Or willing accomplice,”

“You do have motivation against the Venatori,” answers Leliana quietly, something akin to apology in her eyes. “But as long as we cannot be one hundred percent sure, we are forced to consider that possibility, yes,”

A tense silence hangs between them all, only broken by the Chancellor heading for the doors, his crimson and white robes flapping behind him. Evidently his patience with this conversation and perceived lack of consequence for Dorian has run dry.

“When he inevitably turns against us, let it be known that I warned you!”

The doors slam in the wake of his proclamation and Dorian raises an eyebrow with a grimace.

“What a nice man,”

“Quite so,” Leliana sighs. “It’s a good thing he’s gone nonetheless,”

Dorian’s quizzical look and open mouth has her cutting him off before he can speak.

“What I am about to say next does _not leave this room_. I am already taking a huge risk saying this in front of _you_,”

“I suppose I _am_ the ideal spy,” Dorian acknowledges breezily even as a kernel of frustration bubbles in his throat. “Charming, clever, perfect teeth and hair. It all fits,”

Cassandra glares, Leliana turns cold and the mage can’t help running a hand down his scruffy cheek (he needs to shave).

“No, I will not breathe a _word_ after this. I would be a rather large fool to do so, though I’m starting to think I am a fool for coming south in the first place. How about this? Let me help and you can hang me later if you wish. I look rather good in rope,”

The Seeker lets out a noise of disgust (she does that a lot, he’s noticed) and Leliana nods agreeably.

“You are our best hope now, so we have little choice. Rhoderick and all members of the remaining Chantry are under suspicion also for collusion with the Venatori,”

Dorian considers this while Cassandra leaves the conversation to fetch something from a small bench. It makes sense, horrific as it is. The Venatori may have easily infiltrated the Conclave, bribed hungry Chantry nuns or servants to act upon their will. They do have _some_ level of organisation or they never would have succeeded in the first place.

“I would do the same – I mean, I agree with you _now_. Better to hide that we know; Rhoderick doesn’t appear to be the quiet type,”

“He’s not,” Cassandra grunts, dark eyes narrowed as she hefts a thick tome on to the table with considerable force. “Do you know what this is?”

Dorian does not want to find out what happens if she throws the thing at his head, so he blinks at the book.

“A book?”

Fuck, he cannot help himself, can he?

“_Yes_, it is a _book_,” Cassandra snaps in exasperation. “A Writ from the Divine herself granting us the power to act!”

Dorian takes in the rich burgundy cover, embossed and bordered with silver while an eye wreathed in flames and wide-open stares unblinkingly. Rather poetic and a symbol he has seen before – a symbol of exaltation and conquest.

“To act on what?” he questions slowly, warm bronze hand absently caressing the spine.

“From this moment on, I declare the Inquisition reborn! We _will_ close the Breach; we _will find those responsible _and we _will _restore order with or without the Chantry’s approval!”

Her deep brown eyes blaze with the fire worthy of any dragon and Dorian supposes that answers his question. But such a thing has not been restored in hundreds of years. Is Dorian witnessing history being written? Void, is he…part of history now?! He’s dizzied from the slight exhilaration.

The bard catches the widening of his eyes and her pink lips curve mischievously.

“Her Holiness was seriously considering rebuilding a Second Inquisition prior to the Conclave. She had this written and entrusted to us in case she decided to go ahead. We have the power to enact it on her behalf.”

A runner is instructed to announce the return of the Inquisition and Cassandra rubs the back of her head.

“While many do not trust you, Pavus, there are stirrings of a rumour that speak of a Herald of Andraste. You are unexpected, but you are what we needed most _when_ we needed it. The mark on your hand…some believe it a sign, a blessing -!”

“_No_,” interrupts Dorian firmly, his mind straying to Mine. “No, that’s…that’s ridiculous! I’m no fucking _blessing_!”

He doesn’t mean to burst out like this, but the mere hint of this belief is lunacy, almost blasphemy! He can already detect sweat breaking out over his skin and his mana automatically rushes in his blood to defend him. The thought of devout worship thrust upon him is horrifying and most certainly not true.

It can’t be, can it?

Why would Andraste choose _him_, a Tevinter of all people? Her history with his countrymen isn’t particularly friendly.

“We can discuss this later,” Leliana says hastily and she’s appraising him again – for Maker’s sake, he needs to calm himself.

“We need to find those who stand with us. We’re not ready, we have no leader and are few in numbers. We likely have no Chantry support either.”

Dorian watches in a daze as Cassandra puts a reassuring hand on Leliana’s arm. The bard’s hands are behind her back and she’s composed and sure, but there is a tension to her slim shoulders all the same.

“We must act now,”

It’s only then Dorian realises they’re facing him.

“With you at our side, we will restore order in a world gone mad,”

Dorian blinks again and wonders if he’s back in that cabin stuck in a fever dream. They want to use him as a religious symbol for their fledgling Inquisition, to help head an entire army marching to the song of the Exalted –!

He is the only one with the mark.

He is the only chance at closing the Breach, at saving the few he loves and the many who love him not.

He’s tired, so tired.

And very much alone.

If this turns into another cult, into a Pre-Chantry slaughter, there will be little he can do to stand against it. But…this could be his chance to finally repair the wrongs of his nation.

Damn his idealistic heart.

“So many people, including the Grand Clerics, died at that Conclave. We cannot afford to wait around for the appointing of a new Divine. We may be on our own…forever. Will you stand with us despite all that?”

He wants to run away from the weight Cassandra tosses at him.

He’s done enough running, however.

He promised.

And he will promise again.

“I have no choice,” he points out with a level tone. “And I refuse to be used as a religious paragon. But yes…yes, I stand with you. My people have ruined Thedas before. _I won’t let them do it again_,”

Their eyes glitter in the darkened room and remarkably, Leliana reaches out to touch his arm.

“We will help you too,” she replies gently. “And your answer means the world to us. Thank you,”

Dorian swallows against the lump in his throat at her sincerity and cannot reply.

Despite his misgivings, his mistrust, his questions and his fears, he remains.

So…to war then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition is reborn and Dorian is being dragged along for the ride, lol. Thank you for reading!


	6. 5: Hello? It's Reality Calling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Chapter 5 is upon us and Dorian starts to get his bearings by being introduced to the lovely Ambassador. Please enjoy and apologies for the somewhat late filler chapter.

**Josephine**

It will take time for the news of Inquisition reformation to spread across Thedas but spread it must; if they are to gather allies, they have little choice but to risk it. Leliana lets many of her ravens free over the days that follow, ebony upon ebony cawing their way out of Haven to fly to her contacts across Thedas. Her people cannot fly, but they too melt into the shadows, observing and bringing reports on those most likely to make their alliance. Haven finds out first, as it obviously would, by runners and Samson nailing a copy of the Writ to the doors of the local Chantry.

Dorian stands nearby, watching the crowd around the door as they chatter in shock, in concern, some in excitement and religious loyalty. He has been given time to rest with Solas keeping a watchful eye on the mark embedded in his palm.

It is that uncertain step a foal takes before running for the first time and while Dorian is clearly grateful for his reprieve, he also seems unable to do anything but move restlessly in unease. Josephine watches him thoughtfully from the Chantry entrance, her quill tapping her chin as she listens to Quartermaster Threnn and her helpers give her stock numbers.

“And the food rations will absolutely last the winter?”

“Yes, Lady Montilyet,” Threnn answers patiently, waiting a moment for Josephine to jot down some notes on her parchment before continuing. “Thankfully there were immediate donations from the Chantry to the refugees and survivors of the Conclave and many of the locals in surrounding areas so the Inquisition will have a decent time of it this winter,”

Josephine nods, thankful that there are generous benefactors even at the Inquisition’s infancy, though she notes that the main Chantry will most likely not be sending anything more, thanks to their withdrawal of support.

“That is extremely good news for all of us. It will not be plentiful, but at least nobody will starve if we’re careful with the portions!”

She eyes the newly minted Herald of Andraste, who by now has moved to join Varric by the fire on the first set of steps. There is clear avoidance from a good portion of the populace of Haven for the most part, many either ignoring him or outrightly making him feel as unwelcome as possible while talking behind his back.

Nobody has directly confronted Dorian…yet. But someone will sooner or later, and Josephine fears the fallout.

Dorian bears their stares and sullen interactions with the tired grace and many masks of a man who just wants to go home, to feel safe and her heart goes out to him. She may not know him well, but fortunately she is not Josephine Montilyet for nothing. There is something she can do for their potential saviour and she will see it through.

It’s the least she can do for the man who bought them all more time from being swallowed by the Breach.

Besides, she hasn’t introduced herself yet. And that certainly won’t do.

She excuses herself after a few more minutes, citing more paperwork (not strictly a lie) and asks a runner to please fetch Lord Pavus as they have urgent matters to attend to.

They have work to do.

* * *

Barely ten minutes later, there is a hesitant knock at her office door.

“Yes?” she calls out, her eyes focused on a rather vexing letter she’s trying to compose for a minor noble in Starkhaven. If she hadn’t decided to leave her bard training and become an Ambassador, she has a feeling she would have snapped and hopped aboard a pirate ship by now.

Such fantasies must be kept secret, alas.

“My Lady? I brought Dorian Pavus, as requested,”

She looks up, her face lighting up into a welcoming, eager smile.

“Ah, thank you Scout! Please, fetch yourself some tea from Minaeve for your hard work. She’s been giving it out all day, bless her,”

Minaeve jerks her head up from her research corner and flashes a shy smile.

“It’s nothing, my Lady. Winter is a harsh mistress,”

Dorian stands a little way behind the young runner, leaning against the doorframe with his arms folded. On anyone else, it would perhaps be paired with awkwardness, but Dorian is the picture of lean grace. He certainly knows how to keep composed at least.

“Thanks, m’lady!” Scout beams, running a hand through his short brown hair and hurrying over to Minaeve.

Josephine keeps her eyes on Dorian.

“Please, Lord Pavus, come in! Take a seat, I can get you some tea as well if you wish?”

Dorian strolls into the room as though he has all the time in the world and sits opposite her, back straight with one knee crossed over the other. His face is open, and he is ready and willing to listen (she can’t even count how many times that hurdle alone wasn’t crossed with other nobles).

“You must be Lady Montilyet,” Dorian says, smiling pleasantly. “Dorian of House Pavus, formerly of Minrathous.

His noble title is interesting enough, but the last piece of the sentence catches her attention immediately.

“Former?”

Dorian nods, grey eyes sharp.

“I graduated from that Circle quite some time ago. I won’t bore you with the details but, rest assured, it was a _spectacular_ event,”

She can work with this – Dorian already shows plenty of good humour and charm. That will draw people if given the chance and time.

“I’ll take that at face value for now then, Lord Pavus,” Josephine replies, giving him an award-winning smile of her own.

Dorian scoffs at that.

“Please, no Lords here! Just Dorian, or Ser Pavus if you must. How did someone clearly so cultured end up coming to the middle of nowhere to join a possibly holy army?”

Straight to the point under the guise of getting to know her, interesting. He has knowledge of the Game, probably more intimately than many realise, yet chooses to let her lead the dance. That is another advantage. The positives are stacking up by the minute! She must know more about him, build up a profile many will be intrigued by. Right now, she sees no reason in telling him false stories, so honesty it shall be.

“Sister Leliana and I knew each other before the events here. She approached me in Val Royeux about possible ambassador duties with the Chantry for a time after the Conclave concluded and I agreed to come along and observe,”

She frowns at her desk, already dwelling on the sharp turn her life and career has taken.

“Well, you know how that turned out. So, I am here doing what I can to help. Nobility and the Chantry are already up in arms – mostly over you of course,”

The mage watches her closely, shrugging as she finishes as though he doesn’t particularly care about the wrath of the Southern Chantry bearing down on him.

“I’ve always been remarkably good at stirring up trouble back home, my dear Ambassador! This is just one of my many talents that will delight you, I’m sure!”

For a moment, she considers delving deeper into that, but they have only just met. For now, Josephine will keep things less personal.

“I’ve heard a great deal about Tevinter,” she remarks lightly, and Dorian’s face darkens briefly.

“I imagine there were a lot of exaggerations,”

“Some,” Josephine answers dismissively with a wave of her hand. “But every country is the subject of rumour and gossip, especially one as influential as the Imperium. I just want to understand more from YOUR perspective,”

Dorian chuckles, flexing his left hand absently.

“_Flattery_, I do enjoy that! My people would agree that we are still relevant, but they long for the old days of complete domination, I can assure you! I will answer your questions though; SOMEONE ought to know how special Tevinter is,”

His voice is lofty as it has been since the start of their little meeting, but his stormy grey eyes have softened, akin to mist settling over a calm lake. Tevinter appears to mean a lot despite his self-proclaimed pariah hood.

They spend the next hour with her practically grilling the mage about his homeland. Truth be told, she is fascinated by other cultures and brimming with curiosity about Tevinter. One can learn a great deal about a person as they speak of home and Josephine will not deny that Dorian Pavus is extremely passionate, intelligent and flaunting his background and achievements like a peacock showing his feathers. He isn’t afraid to say what he thinks either, which could be an issue later. They also discuss the earlier meeting held that morning, where they confirmed that the Chantry had denounced the Inquisition and declared them all heretics, Dorian especially. They’re still deciding how to handle that rather huge blow.

She’s going to inquire about his family when a gentle knock on the door attracts their attention.

“Come in!”

A new runner, one she doesn’t know yet, peeks around the door sheepishly.

“M’lady, there’s a man waiting to see you. Says his name is Marquis Durellion,”

Ah.

Jospehine cannot say she hasn’t been expecting this.

“Thank you. He may come in if he wishes,”

She glances apologetically at Dorian. She’s not done with him yet, but she could use an opportunity to see how he will react around another noble, particularly one who will without doubt cause some friction.

“Ser Pavus, this will only take a few minutes if you are willing to wait?”

Dorian gestures for her to proceed patiently.

“I haven’t got any pressing engagements, Ambassador, no need to worry!”

Josephine rises to her feet and steps around her neat desk as the Marquis enters the room. For Orlesian nobility, this Marquis is discreet, preferring to quietly thank the runner and entering the room with his arms behind his back.

“I apologise for the interruption, Ambassador Montilyet,” he says, bowing deeply and pale-yellow mask fixed firmly on his face. “Normally I would wait until you were finished but this is rather urgent,”

Dorian hasn’t moved, studying the newcomer with vague interest.

Josephine gestures for the Marquis to take another seat, but he shakes his head.

“Thank you, but no this will hopefully not take long. My wife and I have pressing business elsewhere today unfortunately,”

“Of course, an honest man’s work is never done,” Josephine answers somewhat demurely and she can almost feel amused eyes burning into her back. It seems Dorian prefers to observe instead of leave.

Fair enough. It’s a good opportunity to show him her mettle.

She makes full eye contact with Durellion, noting the somewhat agitated expression that his square-shaped mask cannot fully conceal. He is one of the Chantry’s biggest supporters and has connection to the land through his wife, Lady Machen of Denerim. She may be able to use that information to her advantage, but this family will also cause more trouble than necessary if she fails.

The Inquisition is barely a week old and already it suffers threats to its existence.

“I have heard about this “Inquisition”, Lady Ambassador. My family claim rightful ownership of this land and it was only by Her Divine’s will that we offered the Conclave sanctuary here in the first place!”

The Marquis’ concern, nay fear, is seeping into his words and Josephine sets about trying to placate him, her heart sinking at the suspicion that this man is not the only soul who fears what this fledgling Inquisition might mean.

“The Inquisition cannot remain here, Ambassador, I am sorry. If this were happening while Divine Justinia was alive and giving her word, then my wife and I would be satisfied,”

His voice softens even as he gestures sharply.

“But she is dead, and I have no proof that she asked for this organisation to happen in the first place,”

“Marquis, please,” the Antivan woman answers as kindly yet firmly as she can. “This is an inopportune time, considering what lies before us!”

“I know full well what lies before us, for it hangs in the sky for all to see! But neither can I ignore this breach of my trust and land!”

“More of the faithful flock here each day. Would you turn them away, especially in this time of mourning?”

The Marquis flinches at that, his hands coming up in distress. For all his minor nobility and Orlesian background, Durellion is not an unreasonable or cruel man. Yes, he is most likely considering this is a threat to the family holdings and inheritance, but she knows he is also very devoted to his wife and not a particularly active player of the Game, preferring to stay away and live in peace. He does not just fear a loss of wealth and influence on Lady Machen’s behalf, he fears their potential power and what they will do with it. It’s in his eyes, his restless stance.

Josephine questions this herself, so she cannot blame him, not really. She glances over at Dorian (still sitting, still watching with rapt attention) once more, realising if she does not take risks, the Inquisition won’t stand a chance. The Marquis is gearing up for more, so she makes her move.

“But allow me to introduce you to the brave soul who risked his life to slow the magic of the Breach. You were lucky he was here in a meeting with me,”

If Dorian is surprised or flustered at being drawn into this argument, he hides it well, only getting up and bowing deeply as he reaches them.

“I think our dear Ambassador speaks too highly of me, but it is a delight to meet you regardless!”

“Ser Pavus, this is the Marquis Durellion, one of Divine Justinia’s greatest supporters,”

“He certainly shows it!” Dorian says practically beaming, as though he hasn’t just given a subtle back-handed compliment. “It’s rather refreshing to see!”

The Marquis blinks in a rather disarmed manner before recovering and dipping his head while Josephine closes her eyes for a moment, reassessing her views of Dorian once again.

“I am also the rightful owner of Haven; or rather my wife is, but ownership by marriage isn’t to be sniffed at,”

“Absolutely not,” Dorian agrees. “Your concerns are quite reasonable,”

“We lent this land to Justinia for pilgrimage,” the Marquis repeats, apparently emboldened by Dorian’s sympathy. “This Inquisition is not beneficiary to that arrangement!”

“I must confess, while that _does_ sound vexing this is the first time I’ve heard of Haven having an owner outside of the Chantry,” Dorian remarks, looking more innocent than a kitten.

Josephine forces her mouth to stay stern.

“My wife has claim to Haven by an ancient treaty with the Monarchs of Ferelden!”

“Has Empress Celine verified these claims?” Jospehine interjects and the noble’s shoulders sag a little.

“Not…officially no. But she is a busy woman and surely cannot attend to all her subjects at once! We were _honoured_ to have the Conclave at Haven. Justinia is -!”

Durellion pauses, his demeanour saddening further.

“_Was_ a woman of incredible merit. I will not have some upstart organisation besmirching her holy grounds!”

He jabs a finger towards Dorian’s chest, expression angry, but Dorian only nods gravely, completely unperturbed.

“Your honour does you full credit, Marquis. If you are worried about proof however, we have that,”

Of course, the Writ!

In the hubbub of chaos, Josephine admittedly paid it less attention than she ought to. With a sigh, she crosses to the door and pokes her head out to ask a runner to fetch the book. The wait is a little awkward, but Dorian handles that well too, engaging the Marquis in quick discussion about his family. They honestly may have struck gold with this man she thinks with a good deal of hope.

The Writ is laid in front of the Marquis when the runner arrives and he touches it carefully, flipping through the pages. After some time studying, he looks up.

“I must ask, how do we know her signature wasn’t forged?”

A valid point, despite the terrible implications, and Josephine opens her mouth to try and stave off more pointless bickering.

Dorian beats her to it.

“My good man,” he intones quietly, stepping forward and holding the man’s gaze with a sudden intensity that startles the Marquis and Josephine both. “You ask all the right questions, it’s true. But there are _demons_ pouring from the_ sky. _There are Rifts opening all over Thedas as we speak and people are suffering,”

The Marquis stares as Dorian continues, holding up his marked hand for him to gawk at.

“I should know, I had a rather personal encounter with it all – it wasn’t a relaxing cup of tea. Surely you can understand that _someone_ has to do something in all this chaos?”

The Marquis’ eyes flick to the marked palm, taking in the faintly glowing fissure in the centre. Then he exhales harshly and rubs the top of his bald pale head with a gloved hand.

“We face a dark time, Your Grace,” Josephine adds as he turns his back to them, lost in hesitant thought. “Divine Justinia would not want her path to divide us,”

The Marquis raises his head from contemplating the floor, abruptly tired and done with the conversation for today. He puts his hands behind his back and gives them an acquiescing nod.

“I’ll…_think_ on it, Lady Montilyet. The Inquisition can stay in the meanwhile,” Durellion relents, his voice soft though there is some distrust when he meets Dorian’s gaze. “I can only hope this turns out well for all of us. I apologise once more for the interruption to your vital work,”

With one last bow, the Marquis is gone as quickly as he came.

They stand in the now empty space he occupied in brief quiet before Dorian speaks, apparently not one to let silence linger.

“Well, wasn’t that nice? We get to stay indoors instead of becoming homeless; to think I almost forgot how charming the Southerners are!”

“His Grace is just one of many dignitaries we will have to contend with,”

Dorian glances at her, good humour fading.

“We can’t expect them all to be as reasonable as that either. He would have been eaten alive back home,”

His tone shifts to something slightly wistful and Josephine senses an opening.

“You are used to worse; I presume?”

The darkness she saw earlier blankets his face once more, emphasising a muscle tensing in his jaw.

“Let me just say this – Marqui Durellion and any living heirs would either be dead or blood puppets of the Magisterium by now,”

He offers her a wry grin at the disturbed look on her elegant features.

“You, however, I feel they would have a hard time with,”

“I am honoured you think so,” she responds as demurely as before, and he chuckles.

She cannot keep him locked in her office all day unfortunately, so they part ways after some more pleasantries. Josephine returns to her desk, noting Minaeve’s continued absence as she considers the paperwork deeply without really seeing it.

She has a lot to think about.

Yes, rather a lot indeed.

A recent missive from Scout Harding forwarded by Leliana catches her eye as she unclasps her hands and she picks it up, scanning it quickly. A relieved smile graces her lips.

_This_ could work.

Dorian Pavus and a few escorts are directed to the Hinterlands that very afternoon. The Crossroads and one Revered Mother named Giselle are expecting the Herald of Andraste.

He cannot ignore such a request. So, he goes.

And the Inquisition (Josephine’s) hopes go with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that is the end of filler for now. Please let me know what you think and hopefully I'll be updating with the next chapter much quicker than I have been.


End file.
